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THE MYSTERY OF
THE SILVER DAGGER
IBY
RANDALL PARRISH
AUTHOR or “THE STRANGE CASE OF CAVENDISH,” “THE
DEVIL's own,” “My LADY OF THE North,” ETC.
NEW © YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY


CHAPTER
II
III
VI
VII
VIII
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XXI
CONTENTS
THE MESSAGE IN THE BOX .
END OF A BLIND ALLEY .
A MAN AND A WomAN
ON THE RIGHT TRAIL .
WITHIN THE FACTORY WALLS
A SPORT OF FATE .
I BECOME A WELL-KNOWN THIEF
A LITTLE OVERHEARD
A STRANGE APPOINTMENT
HARRIS TELLS HIS STORY
THE PLANS OF A THIEF .
THE DESERTED AUTOMOBILE
I SEEK MISS CoNRAD
THE THREADS BECOME TANGLED
A FRIEND AT THE MCALPIN .
THE DAGGER HAT-PIN
PEROND’s CAFé
AGAIN THE MYSTERY .
THE PROOF OF MURDER .
IN THE JAWS OF A TRAP .
THE BACK Room AT COSTIGAN's
V
PAGE
I6
24
33
4I
49
56
65
75
82
90
IOO
Io7
II 6
I 26
I45
156
I66
I74


THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER





THE MYSTERY OF THE
SILVER DAGGER
f
CHAPTER I: THE MESSAGE IN THE BOX
NTICIPATING the possibility of my train ar-
riving late, I had named the hour of meeting
with Cummings as three o'clock and, in consequence
of our reaching the city exactly on time, was com-
pelled to loiter idly about the hotel for an hour. How-
ever, in passing through the corridor my attention
was attracted by an unique curiosity shop occupying
a small side room, and, merely to pass the time pleas-
antly, I entered and began examining the strange col-
lection of wares on display.
I have always had a hobby for curios of all kinds,
and having lived many years abroad in the consular
service, with a passion for visiting new regions when-
ever possible, my collection is rather valuable, quite
filling, indeed, two large rooms in the old-fashioned
home left as part of my inheritance at my father's
death. A glance about told me that this particular
hotel curio shop, while not extensive, was evidently
operated by one knowing the value of such things,
and I began examining the stock exposed for sale, with
p


10 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
awakening interest. The proprietor joined me, but
discovering that I was merely curious, permitted me
to prowl about among the cases undisturbed, although
remaining within easy reach should anything particu-
larly attract my attention.
There were several articles I lingered over, tempted
to purchase, but drifted on, rather undecided, until
my eyes perceived a very quaint lacquered jewel box,
entirely different from anything of its kind ever noted
before. It was evidently old, but of a class of work-
manship quite unique. Indeed as I looked at it, en-
deavoring to trace the markings on its silvered front,
I could not determine whether it had originated in
Orient or Occident; seemingly it combined features
of both schools, uniting the peculiarities of each. The
proprietor perceiving my interest joined me.
“The jewel box attracts you,” he said pleasantly,
opening the case and bringing it forth. “And the
closer you examine the work the more you will ap-
preciate the design. You have love for such things?”
“A deep interest at least,” I admitted, taking the
article from his hand, “a collector in an amateur way.”
“You have traveled no doubt?”
“Rather extensively; much of my collection has
been gathered from foreign shops; but I confess this
puzzles me. What is the workmanship—surely not
Japanese?”
“No,” smilingly. “Although positively I cannot an-
swer as to its origin. I studied it for days, and even
now can only make an intelligent guess. The inscrip-
tion, which can only be read with a microscope,” he


THE MESSAGE IN THE BOX 11
traced the line with his finger, “is ancient Arabic, but
no wild Arab ever did the lacquer.”
“Who then?”
“My decision would be a Spanish Moor, a wondrous
workman. There were such artisans, rare geniuses,
indeed, for I have seen other specimens of their skill.”
I turned the box over, whirling the gold key in the
lock, and glancing inside.
“Yet so strange a curio must have a history, an
imaginary one, at least. What is the story?”
“Positively none,” he admitted regretfully. “Per-
haps I am a poor salesman to admit this, but the fact
is, this article was found by a chambermaid in one of
the hotel rooms, and turned it in to the manager. He
made every effort to trace the guests, only to learn
that they, two men, by the way, had registered falsely.
He even advertised, but with no response, and finally,
after thirty days, was persuaded to accept my offer
for the article. No doubt there is a story, and an in-
teresting one, connected with this box, but this is as
far as my knowledge goes.”
“You are too honest for your business.”
“Quite probable, yet I have found frankness to pay
in the long run.”
“You have put a price on this?”
“Yes, ridiculously low, no doubt, yet bringing me
a good profit. The fact is, strange as the workman-
ship is, only a few collectors appreciate it. You are
only the second to show particular interest.”
He named a price, and, still with the box in my
hands, I yielded to the temptation, and bought it. The


12 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER.
article was sufficiently small to find lodgment in an
overcoat pocket, and, as Cummings appeared a little
later, was soon forgotten in the earnestness of our
conversation. The occasion of our conference being
merely a matter of business, has no direct bearing on
this story, and consequently does not need to be dwelt
upon, but we later had dinner together, and attended
the theater in company, my mind so occupied with
other matters that I scarcely once thought of the
strange purchase I had made, which remained securely
hidden. It was only after returning to my own room,
then nearing midnight, that it was again recalled to
memory.
Only an idle curiosity, and a feeling of sleeplessness,
induced me to draw the article forth, and remove its
wrappings, but the sight served immediately to in-
crease my interest. It was certainly a wonderful find,
artistically beautiful, and most unusual in design. It
rested open on the writing desk, under the full glare
of the electric light, its strange workmanship exposed
to scrutiny. There was a mystery that must have ex-
ercised a strange spell over my imagination, for I
dreamed of the long, dead workman who fashioned
it, forgetful of the passing night hours. A clock
somewhere in the neighborhood struck, and I counted
twelve, arousing myself. Perhaps I was already half
sleeping, for as I turned to rise, my sleeve struck the
box at the edge of the table, and before I could pre-
vent the fall, it lay upon the floor at my feet.
There was no crash, no clatter, the thick carpet
deadening the sound, but, as I stooped hastily to re-


THE MESSAGE IN THE BOX 13
cover the overturned box, I was astounded to discover
the bottom slipped partially aside, as though some se-
cret spring had been touched, revealing so narrow a
receptacle that the ordinary eye would never suspect
the possibility of its existence. Closely as I had ex-
amined previously, no conception of any such secret
hiding-place had so much as occurred to me, yet now
I could not doubt the evidence of my own eyes. Not
only was there a false bottom, but the opening re-
vealed a closely-folded paper. I grasped this quickly,
a thrill running through me. What ancient, and long-
buried message, was about to be unfolded? What
work from the dead sought revealment?
But no! This was plainly modern—a clean,
white sheet, no folded parchment of old, but some
mystery of yesterday. I spread it out, pressing down
the unsoiled creases. There was writing there, in
Spanish, so faintly traced I could barely decipher the
words, yet clearly revealed as of this day and gen-
eration. I know Spanish fairly well, having had a
year in Mexico City, yet it required some time before
I could puzzle out the message on this sheet. Even
when I had carefully written down the translation
into English all was not clear to my understanding
—yet there was sufficient to awaken both curiosity and
fear. The paper had been torn, seemingly sundered
from a much longer letter, and preserved merely be-
cause of the specific address and instructions it con-
tained. Beyond doubt all else had been destroyed.
What remained may have been sufficient guidance to
the party who had the benefit of what went before


14 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
in the original epistle, but was obscure to any one else.
Probably it had been preserved with this certainty—
that, if discovered, it would be worthless without a
key to unravel its mystery. Yet it was modern, some-
thing relating to this very time, a menace; something
to be grasped and understood. This conviction abso-
lutely gripped me. I stared at the rather sinister
words, blindly groping at what lay hidden behind
them, instinctively scenting a conspiracy of evil
which I could not determine. All unintentioned I had
stumbled into a clew which might lead to startling
results, yet it seemingly gave me no hint of who was
involved, or of its real nature. I put the words to-
gether, weighing each one with care as to its exact
meaning, and read them over with increased bewilder-
ment. The torn fragment began, and ended abruptly;
I could only guess at its meaning, yet the impression
left upon my mind was both sinister and menacing.
I wanted to know more.
“108 sailed Saturday from Stockholm. Will
deposit letter of Credit with Krantz to your or-
der. Amount ample all needs. See to this at
once, and advise 876 Gans, so as to be no delay.
Two raps, three—Cervantes. Waldron favors
action this month; suggest Watonia. Can you
be ready? Use South A code.”
That this letter was authentic I had no doubt.
Otherwise it would never have been preserved, and
hidden in the false bottom of the box. Beyond ques-
tion this fragment of a letter had been torn off and


THE MESSAGE IN THE BOX I5
preserved because of its definite instructions. Nor
was its meaning altogether obscure in the light of cer-
tain events. Several illusions were familiar to me and
these were what caused my earlier suspicions to crys-
tallize into probability. It bore all the earmarks of a
plot, a revolutionary plot, and one not yet brought to
consummation. To be sure the note was undated,
and the box had been left at the hotel thirty days be-
fore. Yet the Watonia was certainly the name of
a ship and to my memory suggested central American
trade. This did not necessarily imply that the con-
spirators had abandoned their purpose. More likely
they were not quite ready in time to operate on the
sailing date of that particular ship. Some delay had
occurred, and, possibly, even now, prompt action
might overturn all their plans. I sat a long while,
staring at the letter, raking my memory, in deter-
mination to miss nothing, and becoming more and
more firmly convinced that I was on the right track.
Then I undressed, and went to bed, but not to sleep,
for the darkness brought new thoughts and sugges-
tions for the morrow.


CHAPTER II: END OF A BLIND ALLEY
I WAS still in Government employ, although unas-
signed, and felt this discovery to be a direct call
upon my service. While my first inclination should
naturally have been to turn the whole matter over to
the proper bureau for investigation, two facts led me
in another direction—I was sufficiently young to seek
adventure, and I desired to verify my suspicions be-
fore creating any false alarm.
As I rested there, sleepless, staring up at the black
ceiling, the words of the strange fragment of letter
remained vividly before me. I began to analyze them,
and plan the operations of the next day. There was
no reason why I should immediately leave the city;
indeed I could not think of doing so until I had probed
deeper into this mystery. It began to fascinate me;
to grow more and more important; to dominate my
mind. Little by little I dug at the truth, coming
finally to this conclusion. “IO8” was, no doubt, the
recognized number of some agent who had been dis-
patched to America on a special errand to the con-
spirators in this country. He had sailed Saturday, a
month ago, or more, and must have long since ar-
rived at some port, bringing with him instructions not
to be intrusted to the mail, and sufficient money, in
form of Letter of Credit, with which to finance what-
ever nefarious scheme of revolution might be contem-
- 16 -


END OF A BLIND ALLEY 17
plated. This money was to be paid out to the author-
ized party through a man named Krantz. Who was
Krantz? There was a well-known banking firm, Kulb,
Krantz & Company, in Wall Street, and it was quite
probable these might prove the ones involved, al-
though to my knowledge they had no outward junta
connections of this nature. However, no firm having
International financial dealings could be entirely be-
yond suspicion under the circumstances. “Gans” was
evidently a street, although I could recall none bear-
ing so peculiar appellation, while the pass-word was
in itself proof almost positive as to the South or Cen-
tral American sympathies of the conspirators. If not,
it was yet further evidenced by the instructions to use
the South A code in case any message had to be sent
by wireless.
These facts were fairly clear as I thus weaved them
together, but they were rendered more damning by
the other name mentioned—Waldron. If this was
Ivan Waldron, I had good reason to know the fellow,
and to connect his activities with any scheme destined
to embarrass the government. He was not of South
American stock, to be sure, nor had I previously heard
of his being in company connected with revolutionary
propaganda, but he was a professional agitator of the
most pronounced type, a socialist radical, who in the
past had openly advocated opposition to all law and
order. Moreover, the fellow had a large and des-
perate following, to whom he was a High-Priest. I
had met him twice, and realized that he would hesi-
tate at nothing to achieve whatever end he had in


18 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
view. I recalled him clearly—a tall, thin, bony man,
with deep-sunken eyes, and a strange personal mag-
netism which won him converts. As a speaker to
those of his own class he was irresistible, and if he
was engaged in this work he would command plenty
of followers. He was reported to be a Russian b.
birth, but spoke English without an accent, and I felt
no doubt but what a sufficient amount of money would
engage his interest in any desperate cause. If this
man was the Ivan Waldron I suspected, we had an
unscrupulous antagonist, capable of any crime, with
which to contend. Yet the desire to “get him” only
added zest to my interest in the affair. If he was
actually at the head of these fellows, these plotters
against the neutrality of the United States, the catch
would be worth while.
Late as I dropped asleep, haunted to the last mo-
ment of wakefulness by these thoughts, I aroused
early, and with plans fully matured for immediate ac-
tion. At the breakfast table this determination was
strengthened by noting among the columns of the
morning paper that a freighter, the Lancashire, had
returned to her dock somewhat damaged by the ex-
plosion of a bomb in the coal-bunkers, and was found
to be laden with war munitions for Brazil. While
nothing definite was hinted at in the report, I at once
naturally connected this shipment with the fragment
of letter in my possession. If this particular gang
was not responsible, they were certainly planning
something of a similar nature, which might prove far
more disastrous.


END OF A BLIND ALLEY 19
w
As soon as possible I sought out Burke, the man-
ager of the hotel, with whom I had a speaking ac-
quaintance, and, without confiding the extent of my
discovery, questioned him relative to the mysterious
box, and the guests who left it behind. His memory
of the incident was clear enough, and he took trouble
to verify the date by reference to the hotel books.
Two men, both well dressed, but with nothing par-
ticularly to distinguish them, had registered together
late in the afternoon of Friday, September 27th, and,
on request, had been assigned to one room with twin
beds and a bath. The room given them was known
as E. 37. The larger man, who had inscribed himself
as “P. S. Horner, Detroit,” alone had a bag; his com-
panion, known to the hotel as “Gustave Alva, To-
ledo, Ohio,” being without baggage. Neither man
made any deep impression on the hotel employees,
and descriptions were extremely vague as to their per-
sonal appearances. The bill was paid the next morn-
ing by Horner, and the two departed together. It
was an hour later when the chambermaid on that floor
reported finding the box in the room vacated. After
holding it for a day or two in expectation that it
might be called for, no such inquiries being made, the
hotel endeavored to trace the men, but to no avail.
A. P. S. Horner was located in Detroit, but easily
proved he was not the person sought, while no Gus-
tave Alva was to be discovered in Toledo. The fel-
lows had either falsely registered, or were entirely
unknown where they claimed residence. The first was
the most probable condition. After thirty days, and


20 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
having exhausted all reasonable efforts to find the
rightful owner, the hotel felt legally justified in selling
the trinket. That was all Burke knew of the matter,
and his interest in it was not keen. It was to him
quite a commonplace.
I talked with the bell-boy who had taken them to
the room, but his recollections were extremely hazy
as to their personal appearance—the big man gave
him a quarter, and had a black mustache, and seemed
foreign; that was about as far as his memory ex-
tended. The chambermaid had no glimpse of either
one of the fellows. My investigations thus far were
practically barren of results.
What step to take next was a problem. I am in-
clined to think now that I went at the problem with-
out much system, and that any success achieved was
through pure accident. During the forenoon I
dropped in upon Clement Breckinridge, Cashier of the
Dover's National Bank. We had been classmates at
college, and I generally called on him when in the city.
This time I led the conversation to Kulb, Krantz &
Company, on the pretense that I had received mail
from them relative to some recommended investment.
Clement knew Krantz well and favorably, and my
probing elicited the information that the man was
Austrian by birth, but a naturalized citizen, rather
deeply interested in political matters. Since the out-
break of war he had strongly advocated neutrality,
even going to Washington on several occasions to im-
press his views on various members of Congress. If
his sympathies were at all revolutionary he had care-


END OF A BLIND ALLEY 21
fully refrained from any such open expression. The
firm had made a specialty of handling South Ameri-
can business, and had intimate financial connections
in both Rio and Buenos Ayres. The company ranked
high in financial circles.
“The present war must have cost them a rather
heavy loss,” I hazarded.
“No doubt of that,” Breckenridge admitted, “but
only temporarily. In my judgment, Adolph Krantz
is not the kind of man whose patriotism would be
swayed by the loss of a few dollars. In fact he could
drop a million, and scarcely miss it.”
“Those are the very ones who suffer the most.
However, this is nothing to me. By the way, Clem-
ent, do you chance to know of a Gans Street in this
town?”
“Gans? That is a new one on me. Try the city
directory—there on the edge of the desk.”
The name was not to be found, nor any other ap-
proaching it in sound or spelling, and I finally drifted
out onto the street, really no wiser than when I first
entered. My morning had been a total failure, and
all my planning of the evening before had come to
naught. I made one more effort, however, telephon-
ing to a detective Sergeant whom I knew well, as to
the present whereabouts of Ivan Waldron. He had
not heard of the man for several weeks, but promised
to inquire and let me know. He got me on the wire
at the hotel an hour later—the last heard of Waldron,
he was in West Virginia, speaking to striking miners;


22 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
that was less than a week ago; he had not been seen
in the city since.
The whole affair looked hopeless. Every clew had
failed, and I could figure out no other opening. I
could not persuade myself that the fragment of let-
ter was a fake, yet it contained so little information
as to yield me no point from which to start an in-
vestigation. I sat in the room alone, thinking it all
over, but finding nothing to encourage me to any
further effort. About all I could do would be to send
the torn note to the proper authorities in Washington,
with a statement of how it came into my possession,
and let them dispose of the matter in any way they
deemed best. I wrote such a letter carefully on hotel
stationery, and went down to mail it in the lobby.
Before depositing it in the mail-box I encountered
the manager, Burke, and stopped for a word. We
were still talking when a bell-boy came up hurriedly
with a message. Burke turned.
“What is it, George?”
“That Gans Street party is on the wire, sir.”
“Oh, all right. Excuse me, Severn, but I’ve been
trying to get connection for an hour.”
“But wait a minute,” my veins tingling. “Did he
say Gans Street? Where is that? There is no such
name in the city directory.”
“Gans! Why over in Jersey. Yes, I'm coming.”
I thrust the unmailed letter into my pocket, and sat
down, staring at the crowd in the lobby, but entirely
indifferent to their presence. Here at least was an
opening, a chance—Gans Street was in Jersey City.


END OF A BLIND ALLEY 23
Then it was not all a dream. I would at least look
over the ground before I gave up in despair, for I
had stumbled upon a way out of the blind alley—
Gans Street, Jersey City.
w
-


26 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
•'
feet away. Whatever doubt I may have felt regard-
ing my venture vanished in the presence of that un-
usual name. This was unquestionably the place named
in the letter as a rendezvous; here was where the
recipient of that letter was to go and receive instruc-
tions; where he was to use the mysterious raps, and
the countersign “Cervantes” in order to gain admit-
tance. The knowledge that I was actually upon the
threshold of such a discovery brought with it a deter-
mination not to lose the advantage. But what could
I do? What further steps might be safely taken
alone?
I crossed the street, and, hidden securely in the
shadow of the building opposite, studied intently the
dark outline of the old factory. It exhibited not the
slightest sign of life, remaining black and silent from
top to bottom. However, the place might be utilized
at times for secret meetings, or as a hiding place for
revolutionary material, it was plainly enough deserted
now. Yet within there might be found evidence that
such gatherings were held there, or some clew revealed
which would point the way toward a revelation as to
the purpose of the conspirators. Dangerous as such
an investigation might prove, the inclination to at-
tempt a survey of the interior could not be driven
from mind. It tempted me beyond resistance. How-
ever, it was early yet; people were upon the streets,
and the next hour might even bring some of the gang.
It would be best to wait watchfully until later, thus
doubly assuring myself that I could prowl about with
no peril of discovery.


A MAN AND A WOMAN 27
The night was dark, perfect for my purpose. A
slight drizzle in the air, no one abroad except from
necessity. A dim light showed through a dingy win-
dow of the garage where some mechanic was still
tinkering, but beyond that no sign of life was visible
for the full extent of the block, until the saloon on
the further corner came into view. Its gleaming hos-
pitality invited me, and I strolled along the opposite
walk, my coat-collar turned up to shut out the drizzle,
and finally crossed over to where I could peer in
through the dingy windows. The man behind the bar
was unmistakably Polish, and of no high type, and,
at first, I saw no other occupants of the place except
two roughly-dressed men at a table just inside, who
were playing cards silently, a half-emptied mug of
beer at each elbow. The room was clean enough, and
quiet, yet I felt no inclination to enter. Those were
not fellows it would be safe to question, and I would
have turned away, but at that instant I perceived the
indistinct figure of a woman in the further corner,
sitting beside a table alone.
From my position outside I obtained merely a
glimpse, yet her presence stimulated my curiosity. She
appeared to be young, not badly dressed, and her being
in such a place unattended rendered her of some in-
terest. It surely could do no harm if I dropped in
for a sandwich and a glass of beer. I crossed to the
bar, furtively watchful, but no one except the pro-
prietor apparently paid the slightest attention to my
entrance. The two men never glanced up from their
cards, and the girl—for she was scarcely more—


28 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
2.
*
merely turned her head, and stared at me without in-
terest. I spoke to the barman in English, and he
served me pleasantly, indicating a vacant table. We
exchanged a few words, his own speech very broken,
while he prepared the sandwich, and the only thing
unusual I noticed was the passage of a slight signal
between him and the woman across the room. I could
not be sure even as to that, but gained the impression
that he shook his head negatively, as though to some
mute question.
I could perceive her very clearly now as I sat
munching at the rye bread, and this view of her served
to increase my interest decidedly. Unless it might be
the intense brunette blackness of hair and an extremely
clear complexion there was nothing typically Spanish
in her appearance. Indeed she impressed me as thor-
oughly American in features, dress and manner, some-
where in the twenties I should judge, with brown eyes,
and a face decidedly pleasant to look upon, although
with a firmness to it, expressed by mouth and chin,
not to be mistaken. I noted these things hur-
riedly, never venturing to stare at her, though she ap-
parently gave me no attention whatever, gazing calmly
out through the dingy window into the dark street,
her hands, ringless and ungloved, rather nervously fin-
gering a small hand-bag looped about her arm. Once
she took from it a small vanity box, and touched a
powder puff to her cheek, the movement revealing a
delicate watch clasped about her uplifted wrist.
Somehow the girl seemed strangely out of place in
that dingy saloon—she did not in any sense belong.


A MAN AND A WOMAN 29
She was evidently not there seeking company, nor was
she drinking. Indeed I found it impossible to asso-
ciate her with any such purpose; and yet there must
surely be some meaning to her presence.
The proprietor approached me, leaning one hand on
the table. -
“There is nothing more?” he asked.
“No, this will answer very well.”
He lingered, tempted to question me.
“You have not been in before? Perhaps you do
not live near?”
“I do not,” I replied frankly. “I travel out of
Boston, and sell lumber. I have been doing some busi-
ness with the yard down below.”
“I see. You just blow in on your way home. You
are not from New York, I make it?”
“No; Boston has always been my home.”
“Once I live there, too; when I first come north
from Rio. What you think about this war? We
lick Germany—hey?”
“Oh, I don’t know; she seems to be more than •
holding her own.”
“Ach, yes. But now this country go in, what then?”
I looked up quickly into his face, with a swift de-
sire to test his real sentiment. -
“This country! Why should it go in? There are
Germans enough over here to stop that.”
“Not Germans—no. But internationals, revolu-
tionaries. They are more than you think 'Tis time
for them to strike a great blow.”
“You are Polish, are you not?”


30 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“Yah, from Warsaw. I come over six years.” .
“To America?”
“To Brazil. I like it better here.”
“Naturalized?”
“I have first papers—why you ask?” suspiciously.
“I always been good citizen, I guess.”
“No doubt of that. I merely questioned from curi-
osity.” My eyes wandered once more to the girl
across the room, and he noticed the glance.
“You wonder what she do in here?” he asked. “I
tell you. She was my niece, an sit here to wait for
a friend to walk home with her. It is not a good
neighborhood, this, for a woman alone in the dark.
So she wait here till her friend come. Soon he will
arrive; then they go out together—see?”
“Her home is some distance?”
“Five-six blocks. It is a dark, bad way; often
she wait here so, when she come from the city late.
It was more safe she do so.”
He moved back toward the bar, apparently satis-
fied with his examination of me, as well as his ex-
planation. I wondered grimly why he had taken the
trouble to tell me all this, and ordered another glass
of beer as an excuse to linger there a while longer.
What was the party like who was to call for the girl?
Would it be a man, or woman? I did not have to
linger long to gratify my curiosity. The side-door
opened silently, and a man stepped briskly inside,
shaking the raindrops from his coat, as he greeted
the barman cheerily. l
“A dirty night, Jans,” he said, glancing swiftly


A MAN AND A WOMAN 31
about, his eyes sweeping over me sharply. “Business
not very good, I suppose?”
“Dead. It’s no good now any more, with all the
factories closing up because of the war. Just some
salesman drops in for a beer. That makes me noth-
ings.”
The newcomer laughed, evidently put quite at ease
by this quick explanation. I was watching him. A
rather thick-set fellow with a turned-up mustache, and
a disfiguring scar on one cheek, which gave to his eye
a peculiar expression. His eyes were furtive, un-
pleasant, and his teeth gleamed prominently, with a
suggestion of cruelty. Watching the fellow I must
have missed some signal, for he whirled about sud-
denly, and confronted the girl, who had already risen
to her feet, and stood expectantly, one hand yet rest-
ing on the table. Instantly he stepped forward, bow-
ing eagerly, with white teeth more prominently ex-
posed.
“Ah, Señorita! You were waiting for me to come,”
he exclaimed. “Yet I have not kept you long.”
“Oh, no,” she answered quietly in Spanish, her
voice so low the words barely carried to where I sat.
“Only the surroundings are not particularly attractive.
You were delayed?”
“A car blockade at the wharf. No, thank you,
Jans, nothing to-night. You would go, Señorita?”
“There can be nothing to remain longer here for
surely.”
I watched them disappear through the side-door,
marking his grasp on her arm, and her quick glance


32 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
aside into his face. There had been something wrong
about this meeting, something undeniably awkward
and constrained. These two were not what they pre-
tended to be—old-time friends meeting incidentally to
walk home together. They were strangers, coming
together there for the first time by appointment.
Neither had previously known the other. I had even
detected fear, doubt, in the expression of the girl's
face.
Yet I dare not move, or attempt to follow them. I
could only sit quietly, my eyes on the window front-
ing the street. I watched intently, but no shadows
passed that way—the two had not turned down Gans
Street.


CHAPTER IV: ON THE RIGHT TRAIL
Y mind worked rapidly as I sat there motion-
less, afraid to make the slightest move lest it
arouse suspicion. These two people were strangers;
they had met in this odd spot by appointment, and
for some secret purpose. My unexpected presence
had disturbed their plan, and they had endeavored to
deceive me by pretense at a previous acquaintanceship.
Whatever the object of the meeting might be, Jans
was more or less involved. He had signaled to the
girl twice, and his words, however innocent they may
have sounded, must have brought a warning to the
man. Beyond doubt he had questioned me with the
distinct purpose of thus discovering why I had drifted
into the place. I dismissed utterly his statement that
the young woman was his niece—her very appearance
gave that the lie.
He had gone back behind the bar, and was busily
polishing the glasses, but his glance into the mirror
enabled the fellow to easily observe my slightest move-
ment. I must remain there, apparently indifferent,
until he no longer suspected me of seeking to follow
those two; yet I meant to trace them, if later I found
the slightest chance. The strange circumstances of
their meeting, the marked difference between them,
their effort at secrecy; their conversing in Spanish, all
33


34 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
combined to arouse me to action. Something was
wrong, perhaps not criminal, perhaps in no way as-
sociated with the affair which had brought me into
that neighborhood, and yet suspiciously wrong, and I
felt inexorably driven to find out what it all meant.
The girl was no criminal. It was impossible to be-
lieve she could be; but that fellow she had just gone
out with—he was equal to any crime. I finished my
beer slowly, and then selected a cigar from the case,
and lit it deliberately. Jans leaned over the bar,
speaking confidentially, and I had to remain, although
I cursed inwardly at the delay. Yet I broke away at
last, assured that I had finally lulled every suspicion
to rest, and passed out through the front door.
The street was deserted, and rain-swept, the few
lights showing mere pin-pricks in the darkness. A
half glance backward revealed Jans, my emptied mug
in his hand, staring out through the window, as
though to note which direction I took. I plunged
straight across the street, as though headed for the
nearest car-line, and then, in the shade of darkness,
retraced my steps, passing the corner, until I attained
the side-entrance. Here, assured that I was safely
beyond observation, I paused to gain some conception
of my surroundings. This was not easy of accom-
plishment. The street was muddy, and ill-lighted, in-
deed the only light I saw was halfway down the block,
a mere glimmer, tossed by the wind, and rain spat-
tered, its feeble rays scarcely discernible. Across
from where I stood appeared the dim outlines of a
long ramshackle building, apparently a shed of some


ON THE RIGHT TRAIL 35
kind, while beyond the saloon was a row of one-story
dwelling houses, seemingly exactly alike, and exhibit-
ing no evidence of being occupied. There was noth-
ing in the outlook to guide me.
In which direction had the couple turned after their
exit through the side-door of the saloon—to right, or
left? If to the right could they have crossed the
street, beneath the sputtering lamp, without my seeing
them through the window? I could not be sure, yet
the feeling gripped me that, in all probability, they
had turned the other way, down this black passage.
Jans had unconsciously pointed in this direction
when he told of where the girl lived, and, although
that was doubtless a lie intended to deceive, it was no
more than natural for him to have thoughtlessly des-
ignated the proper point of compass. At least I must
take a blind choice in my search, and this appeared
by far the more probable.
I threw away the cigar, a vile weed, and advanced
cautiously, finding the narrow sidewalk one of boards,
in very bad condition. One or two of the houses
showed dim lights within, as I drew near, but these
were barely visible through tightly-drawn curtains,
and the street itself remained utterly deserted. It was
only when I attained the end of this row of houses,
and came to the entrance of a narrow, dark alley, that
I found the slightest proof that I was, by good for-
tune, upon the right trail. It was above this open-
ing that the incandescent bulb flickered dimly, yet, in
spite of wind and rain, gave me glimpse of the mud
underfoot. The two must have been the only ones


36 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
passing that way since the drizzle began, for their
footprints were yet visible in the soft mud of the
crossing as they advanced beyond the safety of the
board walk—the narrow shoe of the woman particu-
larly noticeable and clearly defined. By bending low,
and keeping my own shadow out of the way, I was
able to trace their progress for two or three yards
quite easily, and then, to my surprise, the footprints
turned abruptly to the left, and disappeared entirely.
To all appearances the two had proceeded down the
alley. I searched between that point and where the
sidewalk began again, but without discovering the
slightest mark to show they had gone on. Black, un-
inviting, as that gloomy passage appeared, they must
have turned into it, and groped their way forward.
Where? For what purpose? I could think of but
one object—the Alva Iron Factory, the mysterious
meeting place at 876 Gans Street. Beyond all ques-
tion this alley would skirt along the back of that build-
ing, and there would be an entrance at the rear. I
must have blindly stumbled on the truth, and even
found the means of probing it. *
Dare I go on alone, unarmed as I was, knowing
nothing of what I might encounter? I hesitated, my
heart beating like a trip-hammer, yet, after all, the
danger seemed more of the imagination than reality.
There was little more than darkness to fear. If the
Iron Factory was the place these two people sought,
they were already there, and I would assume but little
risk in stealing silently down the deserted alley in the
endeavor to assure myself of this fact. I had no


ON THE RIGHT TRAIL 37
thought of accomplishing more than this, alone and
unaided, yet, as matters stood now, I had nothing to
report; only vague suspicion. Besides, I was still
young, and venturesome; the situation appealed to
me, and—well, the memory of that girl's face re-
mained strangely insistent. Whoever she was, what-
ever her purpose might be, she was taking a grim
chance alone there with such a companion. Odd as it
may seem, her predicament yielded me a reckless de-
sire to have an immediate hand in the game.
I found two imprints of her narrow shoe in the
mud after the turn had been made, then all trace van-
ished. The dim light penetrated only a few yards,
and, in addition to this handicap, a sufficient amount
of ashes had been deposited along here to make the
walking fairly hard and dry. I crept forward, en-
veloped in gloom, keeping as closely as possible to
the high board fence at the left. This was broken in
places, and diversified by an occasional barn, or out-
house. Once I struck an open door, the darkness so
dense I never realized its presence until I ran full into
it with my head. The way was rough underfoot, and
my progress consequently slow, being anxious to make
as little noise as possible. Indeed the passage was so
black, I lost all knowledge as to how far I had gone,
and was only aroused to my position by finally com-
ing up against a pile of lumber which completely
blocked the further end of the alley. I recalled dimly
that the passage swerved here, running along the side
of the Alva factory, until it reached Gans Street. Then
the place I sought was to my left, behind the protec-


38 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
tion of this high fence, along which I had been so
cautiously feeling my way.
It required a moment or two to study this situation
out, all the surroundings appearing strange in that
darkness. The silence was profound, stupefying, un-
canny. Against the lighter lead of the upper sky I
was barely able to trace the upper story of the build-
ing, but it was all black, a gloomy, deserted hole. Any
faith I might have had that the two I had attempted
to follow had come there vanished as I strained my
eyes for some gleam of light, or any other sign to
denote their presence within. I still believed they had
turned down the alley, but this was not their goal;
beyond doubt they had entered some gate along the
way, and thus escaped me entirely.
So impressed was I with this probability that my
interest in the chase failed; nor did I any longer feel
the necessity of caution. I hardly know what im-
pelled me to grope my way back along the fence
blindly feeling for a gate. Curiosity no doubt, and a
lingering desire to make certain of what was inside
the barrier. The entrance was easily found, a mere
wooden door, held by an iron clasp, which opened
instantly to my touch. I stepped inside, closing it
quietly behind me, and stared uneasily about through
the enshrouding blackness.
My eyes, grown accustomed to the gloom, made
out dim outlines, encouraging further exploration. A
brick ell came within four or five feet of the fence,
and I felt along this with my hands, locating a num-
ber of windows, but no door. This ell was of one


ON THE RIGHT TRAIL 39
story, and not as wide as the main building, which
towered up against the sky, and, discovering ample
space there, and what felt to my feet like a walk, I
turned the corner in search. At that moment the gate
latch clicked sharply, and I sank down into the black
ground shadow, every nerve tingling with alarm. The
gate operated almost noiselessly, yet my strained ears
could detect its stealthy movement, and hear the
crunch of a heavy footstep on the cinder path within.
The fellow evidently knew his way even in that dark-
ness, for there was no hesitancy in his movements, no
uncertainty. He passed within a few feet of where
I crouched, evidently feeling for the wall in guidance,
because as his outstretched hand touched the bricks,
he growled a word of satisfaction, and turned sharply
away. To my eyes he was no more than a lump, a
shadow, almost shapeless in the folds of a long coat.'
Only the heaviness of his step, and the gruffness of
his voice in that single exclamation, identified him as
a man. Then he faded away along the rear wall, and
I became aware that the fellow had turned about the
further corner. That would naturally mean there was
a door there. I had evidently been searching the
wrong side.
Assured the man had vanished, and that he sought
entrance to the building through some passage well
known to him, I crept forth along the end wall,
crouched low in the shadow, and using every precau-
tion against discovery. This was getting interesting,
exciting, and I felt my blood leap with an intensity of
emotion. All that was venturesome in me held high


CHAPTER V: WITHIN THE FACTORY WALLS
STOOD as though paralyzed, with one foot up-
lifted, a hand pressed against the wall, unable to
move. There was nothing I could do to avert dis-
covery, no place in which I could crouch in hiding.
If there had been I was given no time in which to act.
The newcomer moved swiftly, knowing his way
through the darkness, and I had scarcely opportunity
to even glance backward, when he rounded the corner,
and bumped into me. His coming was so swift, so
unexpected, I could do no more than throw up one
arm, and, even as I did that, all thought of resistance
vanished with the sound of his voice.
“What the hell!” he exclaimed, startled at the en-
counter. “Why, damn it, Charlett, what are you
slouching here for? You're Charlett, ain't you?”
“Yes,” I muttered, the assent actually frightened
out of me; then added lamely, “I couldn’t remember
the signal.”
The fellow laughed softly, releasing his grip on my
COat.
“If you attended more meetings you’d be letter per-
fect,” he said, his English without an accent. “Where
have you been the last month—out of town?”
“In Washington,” I ventured, praying the swift an-
swer might suffice.
41


42 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“Oh, I see,” more heartily. “So you were the one
Alva sent? Did the woman come back with you?”
The woman! Who could he mean but the same
girl who had been waiting in the saloon? I had ven-
tured already too far to draw back; I must take yet
another chance, an answer.
“Not with me; that would be too risky. She is here .
though.”
“Good enough; that is what brought me out to-
night. That means money. Let's go in.”
He pushed past, and I followed, totally unable to
determine in my own mind what to do. If I broke
away the act would queer everything; undo all that
had thus far been accomplished. The fellow in the
darkness evidently mistook me for some one of the
gang. His confidence in my identity as Charlett might
win me entrance—but what then? That I was not
Charlett would certainly be revealed by the first gleam
of light, and I would be helpless. I was alone, un-
armed, and these fellows, beyond question, were en-
gaged in a desperate game. They might even murder
to avoid exposure, and my death in their hands would
never be known. I am sure I should never have ven-
tured it had not my companion suddenly turned and
grasped my sleeve.
“You saw Mendez, of course?”
“Sure.”
“And he vouched for her; he says she is all right?”
“He chose her; that ought to be enough.”
“Hell, I suppose so, but even Mendez has made
mistakes. Here's the door.”


WITHIN THE FACTORY WALLS 43
He rapped lightly, his fingers still gripping my
sleeve in a grasp of friendship. I could have broken
away, and ran for it, but something mysterious held
me, some odd fascination of danger. I saw nothing,
heard nothing, yet had an instinctive feeling that a
narrow wicket had opened in the door, through which
our dim outlines were being scrutinized. I held my
breath expectantly.
“Who is there?” the voice was a mere whisper, so
close as to startle me.
“Gaspar Wine,” was the answer, in the same low
tone, “163.”
“What Word?”
“Cervantes.”
“But there are two of you.”
“Oh, this is one of us. It's all right, Juan; I'll
vouch for him.”
The fellow inside grumbled something in indistin-
guishable Spanish, but opened the door silently, just
far enough for us to slip through one at a time. It
was as dark within as without, and I stood helpless,
unable to venture a step. I felt Wine press past me,
and was aware that the guard closed and barred the
door, but could see nothing; not even my own hand
before my eyes. Wine spoke.
“A11 ClOSed?”
“Yes. Have you found the door?”
“Not yet. All right, here it is.”
A latch clicked softly, and a dim ray of light broke
in upon us from a revealed passage beyond. It was
so faint as to scarcely render features visible, and, as


44 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
my coat collar was still upturned, I pressed forward
close behind Wine without discovery. The fellow
never glanced back, or gave me any attention, al-
though doubtless aware of my proximity. Indeed he
growled back across his shoulder an admonition to
close the door as I entered. I could perceive some-
thing of the fellow now, a rather squat figure, con-
cealed by a long, shapeless raincoat, wearing a closely-
trimmed beard, and horn spectacles. His features
were clearly foreign, yet failed to bespeak the fighting
type. I placed him as a theorist, a professor, perhaps,
in some small college.
But my thoughts were not so occupied with my
guide as with the problem of how I was to escape
from him. I dare not go on into the presence of
others, where discovery that I was not Charlett would
be immediate. A bright light, and the necessity of
throwing aside my concealing coat-collar would end
the whole adventure swiftly. Even if the real Char-
lett did not chance to be present, he was nevertheless
one of the conspirators, and consequently well known.
At any cost I must avoid such exposure—but how?
The place in which we were gave me little inspiration.
It was a low passage-way, enclosed by rough board
walls, instantly driving home upon me the impression
that it had been constructed for the very purpose for
which it was now being utilized—a secret entrance to
prevent any gleam of light from being seen without.
Visitors were admitted into a totally dark entry, the
connecting door not being opened until after the outer
one had been first securely closed. This precaution,


46 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
he still remained so confident of my identity as to not
once glance around in my direction. The fellow
seemed obsessed with some special desire, for he swept
his eyes over the swinging garments, and exclaimed:
“Not half of them here yet. I want a word with
Alva before the show opens, Charlett, so you better
go right on in. You know the pass-word, of course?”
“Cervantes.”
“That's correct, but it will be changed again to-
night. See you later.”
He pressed something in the side-wall, sliding back
a panel, and disappeared, the rough boards returning
instantly into place. I was left alone, staring at the
spot where he had disappeared. It was no secret en-
trance, for now that I knew where it was, the spot
could be clearly enough perceived, and even the catch
with which it was operated noted, yet I was not ex-
pected to follow into what was evidently a more pri-
vate apartment. Beyond doubt the entrance awaiting
me lay straight ahead, concealed by the hanging cur-
tain. I stepped cautiously forward, listening for some
guiding sound from beyond that barrier, afraid to
draw it aside and take a blind plunge into the un-
known. I could detect the murmur of voices, several
of them speaking Spanish, yet in such low tones I
could distinguish only an occasional emphasized word.
It was rather a rumble than a conversation, yet with
expression sufficiently distinct to make me judge there
might be eight or ten persons present. There was no
door between us; only that thick, hanging curtain, and
I ventured far enough to draw this aside sufficient to
4


WITHIN THE FACTORY WALLS 47
peer through with one eye. Beyond was a reasonably
large room, but so dimly lighted as to be scarcely
visible from end to end. I could discern men present,
a number of them, lounging about on chairs, their out-
lines being fairly revealed, but the light was not suffi-
cient to give me any impression of their faces. It
seemed quite possible that I might slip in unobserved,
and pass among them unrecognized except through
accident. The one thing which restrained me was
Wine's questioning if I knew the password. This
must mean that it was the duty of some guard beyond
that curtain to make sure of every one entering, and
it would be rash indeed to face scrutiny, even in that
half-light. The risk of discovery was too great. I
must find some other point of entrance.
My eyes anxiously searched the side-walls. The
private doorway through which Wine had disappeared
gave me the thought that there might also be others.
I dare not follow after him, but if there was another
opening to be found I was perfectly willing to ex-
plore into its mysteries. The search was brief, yet
the very nature of the rough board wall made conceal-
ment impossible. Behind the dangling coats I uncov-
ered what I sought, and not a moment too soon. Even
as my hand touched the exposed latch, a murmur of
voices in the outer entry reached my ears—there were
new arrivals being questioned, and admitted.
The panel slid back silently in its grooves, and I
peered through the revealed opening into absolute
darkness. All I could be sure of, as exhibited by the
dim light of the passage, was a single step downward,


48 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
and then apparently a strip of earth floor. Evidently
this was part of the unused, desolate factory, more
than likely the molding-room, yet it offered imme-
diate concealment. I dare not wait and meet those
entering; there was but one choice of action. I
pressed through the orifice, forced the panel back into
place, and stood erect in the intense darkness and
silence, listening for the slightest sound.


CHAPTER VI: A SPORT OF FATE
WAS still motionless, my heart beating fiercely,
when several men entered the passage I had just
left. I could hear the shuffle of feet on the wooden
floor, and the sound of their voices. Pressing my ear
against the thin crack I even distinguished words so
as to piece together scraps of conversation. It seemed
to me there were three voices—one speaking Spanish
entirely, the others using English. One of the latter
spoke first, shaking the raindrops from his coat.
“'Tis a dirty night out, but good for our purpose.
You came by motor, Alonzo?”
“No. Wine said that was too risky. I walked
from the car-line. What's up? Do you know, Cap-
tain?”
The fellow addressed exploded in Spanish.
“Why you call me that? I tell you my name!”
“It’s safe enough in here, but I’ll be careful outside.
What was this meeting called for?”
“Alva did not tell you?”
“He only sent the code signal; that fellow takes
no chances.”
“’Twas better he do not. He was trained in the
army. But I know—yes. It was a message from
Washington, orders maybe, that we act soon. I
hope it.”
49


50 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“From Washington? Is Mendez here?”
“Saprista, no! Can he move without a dozen spies
at his heels? You not know Washington to ask so
fool question. He dare not write even, or send an
aide. The Ambassador have him watched every min-
ute. He is smart enough to know that; so he find a
messenger no one ever suspect. She bring the word.”
“She? A Woman?”
“Sure! that was better. No one know her; no one
ever see her with our people. It was a good trick,
and it fool the pigs.”
“And she is actually here? You know she is here?”
“Sure, else why did Alva call us to come.”
“But who is the woman?”
The other uttered a gruff exclamation of disgust.
“If I know, you suppose I tell? Not much, but I
do not know. They trust her—is it not enough? 'Tis
my guess she come special for to do this.”
“She is a Chilian then?”
“Maybe; maybe American, Spanish. What differ-
ence if she be in our service? They know what she
is; to-night she is Marie Gessler—it has the sound of
Switzerland. Beyond this I care nothing.”
“But you have seen her, perhaps?”
“Not a sight; none of the boys have. She was to
meet Alva at Times Square this noon. I went with
him, but no girl—just a messenger boy there with a
note in code. Something had frightened the lady,
and she made a night appointment over here.”
“Here! How did she know the way out?”
“She didn’t for the matter of that; but she had been


52 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
action in time. My duty now was to report what I
had discovered, when the prompt arrest of Alva, and
a few others, would end the whole scheme. It seemed
simple enough, if I could only find my way out safely.
But escape unobserved was far from being assured.
I was never in a darker hole, and the necessity of
moving with the utmost caution was the thing upper-
most in mind. With nothing to guide me, and only
the most vague sense of direction, I dare not venture
beyond touch of the wall against which I stood. A
single step forward into the blackness, and I was lost
completely. All that my judgment made clear was
that I must be facing toward the front of the main
building, probably with several vacant rooms between
where I stood bewildered, and Gans street. Of course,
there were windows along the side toward the lumber
yard, yet, as no ray of light streamed in from with-
out, these, doubtless, were all carefully boarded over,
and offered no means of escape. However any re-
treat by way of the lighted passage was impossible;
there were guards there at both ends; the only hope
lay in a blind effort forward.
I accepted the only course possible, and began to
feel my way to the left, skirting the wall of rough
boarding, until it widened out into what was ap-
parently the larger room beyond. I was walking over
a hard-packed earthen floor, and encountered nothing
to yield me any idea of what the place had been orig-
inally intended for. If it still contained machinery,
none was in evidence within the reach of my hands;
nor did I discover any sign of an opening through the


A SPORT OF FATE 53
wooden barrier. No sound reached me from any
direction, the silence and darkness oppressing me, as
though they had weight.
Yet one fact became more and more clear—the de-
-liberate purpose with which this deserted iron factory
had been prepared for a secret rendezvous. It was a
lesson in efficiency, an illustration of a fully devel-
oped plot system. I began to imagine that the whole
arrangement reached back through years of prepara-
tion; that the man Alva had originally established this
factory with no other aim in view, but as a screen to
his real activities as an agent of the Chilean revolu-
tionaries. If not, he had certainly thoroughly per-
fected it for such a purpose, the moment the need
arose. Apparently, from without, it stood grim, deso-
late and deserted, yet the interior arrangements were
such that conspirators could meet securely inside, pro-
tected from observation, in rooms through whose walls
no gleam of light might be visible from either street
or alley. Only an accident, or constant vigilance
without, could reveal the true use to which the build-
ing was now being devoted. This knowledge rendered
the peril of my own position the more intense. I could
be killed, murdered, and no man would ever be the
wiser. I would simply disappear, vanish, and that
would be the end. Nor did I have any reason to
doubt that these men would hesitate to encompass
such a crime. It would be their lives matched against
mine, and I could expect no mercy. The very pre-
cautions they had taken against discovery proved the
seriousness of their purpose, and the desperate danger


54 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
they felt themselves to be in if discovered. The
chances were they would hesitate at nothing; be ap-
palled at no crime, so it won them safety and success.
At that moment I had no thought but to discover
some means of escape. The knowledge of the danger
I was in robbed me of all courage. I was like a child
afraid in the dark. I moved forward, inch by inch,
feeling my way along the rough planking with one
hand, my limbs actually trembling under me. If I
could only find some opening; see some gleam of
light; break away from this terrible silent darkness.
The partition wall I followed narrowed into what was
apparently a mere passage way; then as suddenly
widened out once more, as though enclosing another
room. I had to guess at the meaning of this, yet the
most natural conception would be that the place had
thus been divided into several apartments, so sep-
arated as to permit of private conference. That other
doorway, through which Wine had disappeared in
search for Alva, doubtless led to some such more
secret room. And this which I was now skirting was
yet another. At first I thought it extended as far as
the brick wall of the factory, but finally discovered a
narrow passage-way running between.
I supposed I was moving with the utmost caution,
every nerve on edge, feeling a way forward with
hands and feet. Once I stepped upon a shell of some
kind which crunched beneath the weight, and again
my groping hand dislodged a small block of wood,
which fell with a slight clatter. I halted both times,
my heart in my mouth, yet nothing happened, and I


A SPORT OF FATE 55
moved forward again confident of not being over-
heard. There was no opening in the rough boards
and I had rounded the corner into the narrow alley
before anything occurred to cause alarm, or block my
passage.
Even then I could not have told what it was that
halted me. Some strange consciousness of another
presence, felt but unseen in the intense darkness; a
mysterious premonition that seemed to grip me with
hand of steel. I remember I stopped as though shot,
my very breath suspended, one foot still uplifted in a
step forward, my eyes staring helplessly into the black
void. The silence was that of a tomb. I could feel
the perspiration flow down my face in a stream; it
was an instant of torture. Then an unseen hand
gripped me, and an electric flash-light glared into my
eyes.
--------


CHAPTER VII: I BECOME A. WELL KNOWN
THIEF
HE sudden, unanticipated attack, the burst of
dazzling light in my eyes, rendered me for the
moment utterly helpless. I was blinded, and so tightly
grasped at the throat as to be nearly strangled. I
only dimly realized that my assailant was a man, his
"grip that of a giant. Then, to my surprise, the fellow
laughed oddly, snapping out his light, and releasing
his grip.
“Well, if this don’t beat hell,” he said, in the tone
of cheerful disgust. “Come in here, and let me look
you over.”
His hand closed on the sleeve of my coat, and be-
fore I scarcely found time to catch my breath again,
I had been dragged through a narrow opening, and
became aware that a door shut silently behind me.
I stood there, not daring to move, not knowing in
which direction to turn, unable to guess what had
occurred and completely mystified by that odd ex-
clamation. Who was the fellow? Had he recognized
me in the flare of the lamp? What was his purpose
now? These questions surged through my mind un- .
answered, yet somehow not in despair—his voice had
expressed unbounded surprise, startled wonderment,
yet was in no way hostile.
He gave me little opportunity to either act, or think.
56


I BECOME A WELL KNOWN THIEF 57
A match flared, and was held aloft to a gas jet which
instantly broke into a dull flame, sufficient to render
visible the full extent of the small room in which we
stood. In some semi-conscious way I was aware of
bare walls, of a small table opposite with some writ-
ing materials on it, and a short bench covered by a
blanket. I suppose I saw these things, yet all that
I seemed to perceive was the man fronting me, who
stared in my face, a quizzical smile on his lips, as
though still half uncertain of the reality of my pres-
ence. He was tall, a trifle angular, but exceedingly
well-dressed, with closely trimmed iron-gray beard,
and peculiar eyes deeply set in a rather chalky face.
I could neither guess his age nor race, but was abso-
lutely convinced we had never met before. He broke
the silence, evidently inclined to look upon this meet-
ing as a joke. -
“Don’t recognize me, I reckon? Well, that ain’t to
be wondered at, for likely enough you never saw me
before. Beats the devil though why you should drift
in here; now I suppose it will have to be fifty-fifty.”
His words and manner gave me a new lease on life.
I began to feel cool, cautious, my mind awakening to
the situation. Whoever he might be he was seemingly
friendly. I must meet the fellow in that same spirit,
and endeavor to extract from him some knowledge
of whom he supposed me to be.
“I do not quite get the drift of all this,” I ventured.
“You imply that you know me.”
“Hell, yes. Over in Bow street, on the other side.
The Hartlebury robbery case. I'd been hearing about
**


58 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
you for years, and when that came on, I took a
chance, and drifted in to court one day just to see
what you looked like. Naturally I didn’t make no
great display with all them Scotland Yard guys about.”
“Of course not.” -
“Just slunk into one o' them back seats, and hung
on quiet. You was testifying fer yerself at first, an’
so I had a good look at yer. Say!” admiringly, “that
was sure some defense, and it made them Britishers
blink. I knew they'd never be able to hold yer on the
evidence. But it queered you over in Europe, I
reckon?”
“Yes,” I admitted, realizing now what he probably
took me to be, and prepared to play the character.
“The system made it too hot, so I got out.”
“The sensible thing to do. There is nothing over
there now, since the war. That is why I jumped for
the U. S. You've shaved your mustache, and look
ten years younger, but I knew you, all right. I never
forget a face. Say, who put you onto this game-
Waldron P”
I nodded, taking a chance. “I’d have bet my life
he was the guy—the damned sneak. I might have
known he would double-cross me some way. Say,
he's nothing to you, is he?”
“No; I haven’t any use for his sort.” -
“By God, I thought as much. Of course a tip’s a
tip in this game, and I don’t blame you any for horn-
ing in. Naturally you never knew this was my game
—how could you? Waldron never said a word about
me, did he?” -


I BECOME A WELL KNOWN THIEF 59
“Not Once.”
“That is how I had it sized up, so I don’t hold any
grudge against you. Now listen,” and he bent for-
ward confidentially, lowering his voice, so I could
barely distinguish the words. “We'll talk it all over
later, when we’re alone. 'Tain’t exactly safe here,
for these walls are thin, and there is quite a bunch
around to-night. But understand I’ve got a cinch
with these Spanish suckers. Hell, it makes me laugh
the way they take the hook. There's plenty for the
two of us, if we play the cards right, and we'll let
Waldron hold the bag. What do you say, Daly?”
So my name was “Daly.” Well, that was interest-
ing at least, although it gave me no new light. How-
ever, nothing remained for me to do except agree to
his blind proposition.
“That's mighty handsome of you. What's the
figure?”
“A million!” enthusiastically. “Can you beat that;
and like taking candy from a kid. Wait until I get a
chance to explain the plan, it looks like Providence
had just handed us out the money.”
“Why not explain the scheme to me.”
“Not now; there ain’t time.” He glanced at his
watch, “and besides, for all I know, some guy might
be listening in to what we say. You see there is a
bunch o' hell-cats in there waiting for me to give
them a song and dance. I'm the big end right now,
but I’ve got to sing low until I'm sure what word
these guys have got from Washington. After that
I'll know how to trim sail.”


60 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“The woman, you mean?”
“Sure. Some foxy guy, that fellow Mendez, to
send a skirt. This is a ticklish business for them
legation fellows to be mixed up in, and anyhow they
are piped off everywhere they go. I know that. So
he picks up this female, and nobody thinks about fol-
lowing her. Of course Mendez knows she is his kind,
and all that, but the wise ones are not on. Still she's
foxy enough herself for the matter of that; likely an
old hand at the game. She wouldn't even meet Alva
over in town. Not much. It was over here in the
dark, or not at all. You know the sort, Daly—the
South American revolution stuff—it’s hell to buck
against.”
“You put her down as a secret agent?”
“What else? And a damn good one, to my notion.
The truth is I am more afraid of her than all the rest
of the bunch combined. She's got brains and nerve,
that girl. I had ten minutes with her, just now, and
fairly sweat blood, but, by God, I got by. It was like
the third degree, only I’d rather face any bull than
have her damn eyes search me—they’re pretty enough,
but they're sure wide open.”
“I saw her, I guess—rather young, and a brunette;
the last type I would expect to find in such work.”
“You never can tell; ’tisn't what they look like, it's
what they got in their heads, and this one has got
plenty, believe me. Mendez knew his business when
he picked her. Where did you glimpse her?”
“In a saloon at the end of the block. A man joined
me there, and they left together.”


I BECOME A. WELL KNOWN THIEF 61
“That was Alva. He's head of things here. You
wait until I come back, Daly, and then we'll plan this
thing out. I’ll know the lay of the land then, and
how to work. You think I'm aiming to play fair,
don’t you?”
I looked at him doubtfully.
“Well, of course, I’ve got to think so,” I admitted,
hoping to gain further enlightenment, “but you leave
me pretty well in the dark. What do I really know?
Nothing. You talk glibly about a million you pro-
pose going fifty-fifty with me on. That naturally
sounds good, but it would sound better if I even knew
who I was dealing with. I have some idea of what is
in the wind from what Waldron told me. That is
why I came here—to get a crack at it. But you've
got the advantage—you know me, but I never saw
you before in my life.”
“Hell, that's so,” he grinned cheerfully, “I forgot
I wasn’t talking to an old pal. Just to be sure you’re
Harry Daly was enough to make me cough up, but
that don’t help you out, does it? You don't place
me, then?”
“No.”
“Ever hear of ‘Gentleman George in your travels?”
“George Harris!” the name leaped to my lips in
inspiration; only the day before I had chanced to read
a magazine account of a famous criminal exploit. His
eyes gleamed in genial appreciation.
“I thought maybe that would fetch you,” he said
exultantly. “There ain't many of the old boys but
have my number, and they all know I play square.


I BECOME A. WELL KNOWN THIEF 63
revolutionary criminal plot as fascinating as it un-
doubtedly was dangerous. Who Harry Daly might
be I had not the slightest conception. My knowledge
of “Gentleman George,” alias Harris, was entirely
accidental, merely recurring to memory through the
late reading of a fugitive item; but I had never felt
the slightest interest in the criminal world, and con-
sequently whatever exploits might surround the classic
name of Daly remained to me a closed book. Beyond
question he would be a thief of ability, so well known
and respected in his particular line as to awaken ad-
miration of the truly redoubtable Harris. The will-
ingness with which the latter accepted me thus into
immediate partnership evidenced his fear of doing
otherwise. Plainly enough he felt that his cake was
dough unless he did consent to divide the spoils.
Seemingly Mr. Daly's reputation in the underworld
even outranked his own.
It was hardly a compliment I relished to be thus
mistaken for a thief, even an extraordinarily expert
one, yet there was no escape from the conviction that
Harris believed blindly in my identity. He was not
acting, for he would have no possible object in such
pretense. The recognition had been immediate, as
soon as the flashlight revealed my features, and, for-
tunately, my blind answers thus far had aroused no
suspicion. I was to his mind Harry Daly, a well-
known criminal, an international thief, a man after
his own heart, to be warmly welcomed into partner-
ship as a most valuable ally.
What should I do under these peculiar circum-


64 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
stances? Seek to escape during his absence, and thus
frighten the covy, or remain, and trust fortune to
show me a way to both expose their villainy and save
myself? I was young, adventurous, and I chose the
latter, thinking less of the danger, I admit, than of
the mystery of the case, and—yes, the girl.
<


CHAPTER VIII: A LITTLE OVERHEARD
SAT there in the dark after this decision, en-
deavoring to piece together the various discov-
eries of the past hour. It was a difficult task, and at
the end I had to rely largely on guess-work. What
was the nature of the scheme which had so suddenly
led Harris to return to America, and how was he
involved in what evidently was a Chilean conspiracy
against the neutrality of the United States? He
spoke confidently of thus gaining possession of a
large sum—a million dollars, surely a stake worth
daring much for—but how, by what means, did he
expect to get his hands on such a fortune?
My mind reverted to the fragment of letter which
had sent me on this mad chase, to its mention of a
letter of credit to be deposited with the banker Krantz,
to the credit of the recipient. The writer had stated
that the sum would be found ample for all needs. But
a million dollars! Could it be possible that so large
an amount would be thus advanced? If so, then the
result hoped for must be proportionately important.
What could it be? Such a sum was not to be ad-
vanced by financiers anywhere, without a certainty of
profit, and the most consummate trust in the agent.
Who was the agent? To whom had this letter been
sent—Alva, who apparently was the active leader here
in New York, or the revolutionary representative in
65


66 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
Washington, seemingly known as Mendez? Which-
ever it was, that man evidently had the disposition of
this vast sum entirely at his disposal; either it was
already in his hands or so deposited as to be quickly
available. In my judgment the fellow would be Alva,
for sundry reasons; first he had been one of the men
registered at the hotel when the lacquered box was
lost; and second, the expenditure of this money was
seemingly intended to be made in and about the port
of New York—if I read the message right, in the
purchase of arms and munitions for shipment to
South America; perhaps the enlistment of a body of
fighting men.
So far the matter was fairly clear—Alva as the
local revolutionary agent had been intrusted by the
Junta with this money to spend in a certain definite
way; but he must work under strict orders coming
from the headquarters at Washington. He dare not
assume the initiative without the “O. K.” of the man
higher up—Mendez. Something had occurred to de-
lay action; that made no difference, but now the time
had come. Mendez, unable to be present in person,
and even fearful to permit any of his well-known
Junta representatives to appear in this connection, had
chosen to send a woman, who would be unsuspected,
to deliver to the conspirators his definite plan of ac-
tion. All this seemed reasonable enough, and in no
way surprised me.
But the appearance of the woman did, and also the
close intimacy of this man Harris. To my amaze-
ment I felt a deeper interest in solving her connection


68 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
was too wide. Yet there was no other explanation
possible—she was actually here, in the den of con-
spiracy, alone among all these men, unafraid, the
recognized representative of the Chilean Revolution-
ary Junta, bringing with her direct from Washington
those final instructions for which they waited—in-
structions, no doubt, involving unneutrality, destruc-
tion, death, frightfulness, the extinction of a friendly
government; all this that could be compassed by the
expenditure of a million dollars in ruthless hands. It
was unthinkable, yet every evidence proved it true.
There came to me an insane desire to overhear what
she had to say; to watch her once more, when free
to study her unnoticed, and to see this gang to whom
she brought her message. What part would Harris
take to further his ends? Would she innocently play
into his hands? Would she in some way reveal the
nature of her own connection with this vile political
conspiracy? Almost without realizing my action I
crept in the dark out into the narrow passage, and
felt my way along the rough board walls. No ray of
light, and no sound of a voice told of the presence of
others. So far as any outward evidence was con-
cerned, I was apparently alone in the great building.
But I knew differently. Somewhere, and within a
few feet of where I stood undecided, a secret confer-
ence was being held, hideous crime, treason, plans in-
volving death, being discussed in whispers perhaps,
and schemes of destruction being outlined that might
involve the loss of hundreds, the overthrowing of a
nation.


A LITTLE OVERHEARD 69
As I advanced cautiously the full ingenuity with
which the place had been prepared for just this foul
purpose became more apparent. The narrow passage
I followed, my hands touching either wall, was not
straight, but curved to the right, and it dawned upon
me that it skirted the main apartment, where, in all
probability, the conference was being held. This ac-
counted for the fact that no gleam of light was visible,
and that, in anticipation of their use, separate and
small rooms had been constructed, connected together
yet so isolated as to permit of the utmost privacy. One
of these Harris had left me in, and now I found that
the passage led me not direct to the main apartment,
but to another smaller room, whose door barred my
progress. This, I figured out, might be the same into
which Wine had entered in search of Alva, when he
deserted me in the front hallway.
I listened intently, but heard no sound within, and,
satisfied the room was without occupants, ventured
finally to gain a glimpse inside. With eye at a narrow
crack I could perceive most of the interior, as a gas
jet turned low shed a dim, bluish gleam sufficient for
revealment. It was a room not altogether unlike the
one I had just left, although smaller, and containing
a chair or two in addition to the writing table. A
blanket on the floor served as a rug, and in one corner
were shelves containing several bottles, and a box of
cigars. I noted these things quickly, my gaze stray-
ing to a partially open door in the board wall to the
right through which a brighter glow of light streamed.
*


#70 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
My ears caught the sound of voices, the words in-
distinct.
Although convinced the small room was without
occupants, I was some moments screwing up my cour-
age to enter. To cross those few feet, and approach
that slightly open door involved a peril of discovery
that tested my nerve to the uttermost. The slightest
sound might betray my presence, and, at any instant,
some one might have occasion to reënter the smaller
room. Yet there was no other way in which I could
learn the meaning of all this, or be prepared to in-
telligently play my part later with Harris. To trap
the fellow I must know his purpose, be able to answer
his inquiries, and seem conversant with his villainy.
A moment at that door might yield me the necessary
clew to the whole affair; aye! might even enable me
to comprehend how this girl—Marie Gessler—had be-
come involved in it. I think now that last reflection
was what really drove me to the attempt—a strange
desire to learn, at first hand, who and what she ac-
tually was. -
The door opened toward me, but it would be sui-
cidal to attempt viewing the room beyond through that
opening. However engrossed those gathered within
might be, some restless eye would be almost certain
to detect my presence. The only thing I dare venture
was to gain such survey as was possible by means of
the narrow crack below the hinge on which the door
swung. This afforded me the merest glimpse of one
side of the room, revealing four or five men sitting
motionless on a bench against the wall, evidently lis-


A LITTLE OVERHEARD '71
tening intently to what was going on opposite them.
With the exception of Wine, who was third in the
row, no face I saw was in the least familiar—two
being pronouncedly Spanish, the others not so easily
recognized as to nationality. That which impressed
me most strongly was rather their well-groomed ap-
pearance, and the cut of their clothes. This was no
gathering of vulgar criminals, scheming to war against
society—these fellows were seemingly successful busi-
11eSS men.
But if my range of vision precluded my seeing
these few in whom I was most deeply interested, I
had no difficulty whatever in overhearing their voices,
and grasping the sense of what they were saying. As
a general thing the words used were English, although
occasionally some one requested an explanation in
Spanish, which was immediately given. I drew the
impression from something which was said that there
were those present who did not understand the latter
tongue. However, almost the first sentence overheard
convinced me that I had arrived too late to learn di-
rectly the nature of those instructions received from
Washington. Alva was asking a question.
“But we are ready to act now,” he said impatiently,
his foreign accent faint, yet plainly perceptible, “have
been ready for a month past. What necessity then is
there for further delay?”
The woman, whom he evidently addressed, must
have been very close to the door; her voice soft, but
speaking with clear enunciation, sounded almost
within reach of my hand.


A LITTLE OVERHEARD 73
“All I know iss et vait on der order of Gustave Alva
to be endorsed by Señor Mendez. I hol' ett so in
trust, from the agent.” f
“In the bank vault, Mr. Krantz?”
“No; dat would not do. Ett was in a private safe,
a package of currency, only I know where. The bank
hav’ nothings to do with der deal.”
“I understand. The agent gave you personally the
Letter of Credit, which you immediately cashed, and
you now hold the currency subject to call?”
“Certainly; dat vos how ett vos.”
“Your instructions were to turn this into cash?”
“Not in writing—no; dar vos no writing. The
agent he tell me.”
“The agent? Oh, you mean 108? What about
that arrangement, Mr. Horner?”
I recognized Harris in the reply, his voice perfectly
calm and confident. In all probability he lied, but it
was done most convincingly.
“Those were my positive instructions in London,”
he said coolly. “The banking house there was not to
be involved in the slightest degree; no trace of the
transaction was to appear on their books. I explained
it all to Krantz, and he said that was much the safer
way.”
“But why has the money not been drawn and used?”
“That is for Alva to say. I tried to get him to act,
but he refused without another authorization from
Mendez, and special instructions.”
“You never received these, Señor Alva?”


74 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“No. I asked by code; I supposed he would answer
by messenger.”
There was a pause, a silence. I imagined I could
understand something of what Harris was endeavor-
ing to accomplish in this delay, this getting the entire
sum transferred into currency in private hands. It
was one more step in his intricate scheme of robbery,
but so cautiously concealed as to arouse no suspicion.
What else had he done to this end already? Had his
verbal instructions to the banker been false? Did he
know exactly where this fortune was hidden? To
achieve delay, and thus gain opportunity, had he inter-
cepted, or even changed, the code message, sent by
Alva to Washington?
All this was possible enough, yet it was evident that
the woman accepted the explanation as satisfactory.
“I do not know how true all this is,” she said at
last, slowly. “Nothing was said to me about such a
code message. I was told the money was already
being used. I do not believe there is any necessity of
any further endorsement, as Señor Alva is working
under direct commission from the Junta, with full
authority to act. However, I will verify this to-mor-
row. I am going to retire now, Señors, and leave you
alone to discuss the matters I have presented. Above
all it is necessary that I should know at once who you
select for the important work, and when we may
expect results. This information I must positively
take back with me.”
“When do you return?”
“On the midnight train. I have three hours yet.”


CHAPTER IX: A STRANGE APPOINTMENT
MUST have failed to grasp the full meaning of
what she said, or else it never occurred to me that
her retirement would be made through this particular
door. At least she had pushed it wide open before
I realized the necessity of retreat, and I was hemmed
in behind its barrier, fortunately securely hidden from
the eyes of those in the larger apartment. Some one
—Alva, no doubt, from his words and voice—was
beside her as she emerged, and, indeed, it might have
been his hand that swung the door back against me.
I stood there startled, unable to move, afraid that my
very breathing might be overheard.
“You leave at midnight, you say, Señorita,” he
protested in Spanish; “but surely you intend to re-
main here at present?”
“Until you reach some final decision—yes; that is
my mission.”
“I shall see to that at once; we will draw lots. You
can wait either in this room, or another just beyond.
Promise you will not go until I see and talk with you
again.”
“I promise that—so you are not too long. I must
make that train.”
“You shall make it. My car is only two blocks
away, and I pledge myself to have you there on time.
75


'76 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
All this business can be attended to in half an hour.”
He stepped back, partially closing the door, while
she turned, her own hand on the latch, facing me.
Her eyes stared directly into mine, her face whiten-
ing under the light, her teeth shutting down close
against the red lips as though to repress a scream.
She was startled almost beyond control, yet mastered
the fright instantly. Her eyes darkened, one hand
pressed convulsively against her heart; then she
glanced about at the partially open door, and silently
closed it tightly.
“What—what are you doing here?” she gasped in
English, her voice trembling. “Listening?”
“No,” I lied, seeing but one possible means of es-
cape, and hoping thus to prevent her sounding an
immediate alarm. . “I was waiting for a friend who
is inside. I just came into this room.”
“From where?”
“Back yonder. I got tired of sitting alone in the
dark.”
She glanced past me into the mouth of the black
passage. Her courage was quickly coming back, and
with it a flash into her cheeks.
“You actually belong here then? You are one of
these men?”
“Not exactly,” I had to admit. “I know one of
them very well, and he stationed me out there.”
“Oh, I see—on guard?”
“That’s about it.”
“You were told the word?”
“Of course.”


A STRANGE APPOINTMENT 77
“What Was it?”
“Cervantes.”
She appeared puzzled, doubtful, yet to my surprise
still held the door tightly closed, her eyes searching
my face.
“Who is the man you know—your particular
friend?”
I hesitated an instant, the name escaping me.
“Horner.”
“Oh, indeed; you were not very prompt to answer.”
“Well,” I said, and managed to smile, as though it
was of little consequence, “you see I have not always
known him by that name. There are times when
names need to be changed occasionally.”
“True,” she admitted soberly. “In this case I be-
lieve he had to arrange his identity to fit a passport.
Is that it? Do you mind gratifying the curiosity of a
woman as to what his real name might be?”
“I could not, if I so desired. Ever since I knew
him he has been called Harris. That is all I can say.”
“Harris! Then he is not Chilean, and never before
pretended to be. I thought that from the first. Is the
man American, English or Irish?”
I shook my head.
“You won’t answer. That may be ignorance or it
may be pretense. Never mind. I recognize your face
now. You were the man eating in the saloon an hour
or so ago. Were you waiting for this Horner—alias
Harris—then?”
“We met later.”
Her lips smiled a little, and her eyes.


A STRANGE APPOINTMENT '79
she might say, or do, served to lower her in my esti-
..mation to the hideous level of a political conspirator.
Yet what else could she be? How could I account
for her presence in this place on any other theory
except that she came as a representative of Chilean
intrigue? As the trusted messenger of that secret
conspiracy at Santiago, under orders of the revolu-
tionary Junta at Washington? I had heard her words
spoken boldly to this band of plotters, words of au-
thority—demands they dare not ignore. No, there
was no doubt as to who she was, or what she was.
In spite of her face, her pleasing manner, her at-
tractiveness of person, she was a dangerous enemy to
this government which protected her, a despicable
snake crawling through the dark to strike down a vic-
tim—a thing to be crushed without mercy. The very
softness, womanliness, only made her the more to be
feared. She should cast no spell over me. I would
harden my heart, and forget all except the duty I
owed my country, and that neutral nation to the South
with whom we were at peace.
“Frankly, I do not know what to think,” I answered
at last. “Your mission here to-night, as I understand
it, somehow does not fit in with my natural conception
of you as a woman.”
She laughed, but so low as to be inaudible to those
beyond the closed door. /
“You amuse me. Cannot a woman—even a wom-
anly woman, if you please—love her country and be
willing to sacrifice in its behalf?”
“Not to the extent of treachery and deceit, not to


80 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
the end that innocent men and women suffer,” I re-
turned hotly, forgetting caution.
“And is that my purpose here, you think?”
“Is it not? This is a neutral land, yet what else
can this conspiracy contemplate but cowardly destruc-
tion? Violation of international law? Can you an-
swer that?”
“I refuse to answer—here and now, at least. Nor
do I know why you should ask. Why are you here,
and how? Do you realize the ease with which I could
open this door, and give you over to the mercy of
those men in there? After what you have just said,
why do you suppose I fail to do so? Because I am
such a womanly woman, perhaps.”
“Rather because you have no reason to so act. I
may denounce your connection with this affair, be-
lieving it no fit work for any true woman to be en-
gaged in, and yet myself be no traitor to the cause.”
“You still hold me a true woman then?”
“Yes; I may be blind, but I retain faith.”
“That is good—yet do not trust too much in any
woman. So you are the friend of Horner, alias Har-
ris? Do you know I hold that to be quite a distinc-
tion. What is your name?”
“D-Daly, Harry Daly.” -
, “You seem to have some difficulty to-night in re-
membering names. Does this mean you also possess
a variety? Evidently I have fallen among a very in-
teresting community.”
She stopped, listening intently, her head tilted back


A STRANGE APPOINTMENT 81
so as to better hear what was occurring behind the
closed door.
“Be quiet,” she whispered, one hand held forth in
swift warning. “They are through in there, I think,
and Alva will be out in a moment. Now listen! Don't
ask any questions, but listen. Will you pledge your-
self to do whatever I say?”
“Within any reasonable limits—yes.”
“Limits! Don't talk limits,” impatiently. “You say
you are blind, but retain faith. Act on that faith
blindly. I cannot speak here; there is no time, no op-
portunity. To-morrow at two o'clock, come to 247
Le Compte Street. Will you?”
“Yes.”
“Do not mistake the number. Ask for Miss Con-
rad. Now go back there and wait for Horner. Quick
—they are coming out.”


CHAPTER X: HARRIS TELLS HIS STORY
PLUNGED hastily into the passage, and groped
my way back between the narrow walls to the
secluded room in the rear. I was too confused, too
startled, to even think clearly. My conception of this
woman, her nature and her purpose, had been changed
a dozen times during this brief conversation. Even
now I was utterly in the dark. Was this engagement
for to-morrow a decoy? A shrewd effort to detect
me, and lead me into a trap? or was it extended hon-
estly and with some real object in view? What could
have caused her to place confidence in me? Did she
have some secret motive in the carrying out of which
she deemed me useful? Did she hold me as friend
or enemy? If the latter, why was I not immediately
exposed? Surely there could be no better place than
this in which to put me out of the way—yet, instead
of raising an alarm, she had conversed in whispers,
had helped me to disappear, was even then protecting
me from discovery.
The situation was impenetrable. No explanation I
could conjure up brought any satisfaction. I could
only sit there in the dark on the bench, and wait the
return of Harris, without so much as a clear thought
to guide me. Did the woman know me? or suspect
the reason of my presence? That was manifestly im-
82


HARRIS TELLS HIS STORY 83
possible. She was utterly strange to me, and she was
not one to be easily forgotten. Why, then, did she
trust me—if it was trust?
It must be either that, or treachery of the foulest
type. “247 Le Compte Street”—I could not recall the
neighborhood, only a vague conception of red brick
buildings of exactly the same general style—probably
fairly respectable boarding houses. And I was to ask
for “Miss Conrad.” Who might she be? Not the
lady I had just left surely, for she was scheduled to
take the midnight train for Washington. There could
be no doubt of that, as Alva would drive her to the
station, and probably see her safely aboard. “Miss
Conrad” might be anything—a strange woman, an
accomplice, even a disguised policeman. It masked
some trick surely, of which I was quite liable to be
the victim; behind my lady's smiling eyes, and cheer-
fulness, there was surely some marked purpose. This
was the impression with which I ended—that for some
end unknown she was coldly playing with me, lead-
ing me on. Very well, I would go where she directed
in that belief, forewarned, and therefore prepared.
But I would go alone, just as I had promised.
I began to think Harris had gone away with the
others, and left me there alone. I heard voices speak-
ing earnestly in the distance, but without venturing
forth from my hiding place. Nothing was to be
gained by exposure, and, as these sounds grew less,
and finally died away altogether, I became convinced
that most, if not all, had left the building. Then he
appeared suddenly, bringing in his arms a bottle from


84 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
the shelf in the other room, and the box of cigars.
“Touch a match to the gas-jet, Daly,” he said, feel-
ing for the table in the dark. “That's better. I hung
around until the gang all got out, so as to be sure we
were safely alone. This is a safer place to talk over
private affairs than down town in a hotel.”
“There is no one about then?”
“Not a one; saw the last guy slip out ten minutes
ago. They go one by one, you know; that's what
takes time. Have a drink, and light up, old man. We
are as secure here as we would be at the bottom of
the sea. This is Alva's whisky, but good—I sampled
it before.”
He sat on the table, nursing his knee, rather pleased
with himself, I thought, a cigar thrust between his
lips, the blue smoke curling up before his face. I
ignored the invitation to drink, but helped myself to
a weed, waiting for him to open conversation.
“Well,” he said finally, “everything is going accord-
ing to Hoyle, but there is a knot or two yet to be un-
tied before we squeeze that million. What do you
say, Daly?”
“I don't know how I can say anything until I get
a glimpse at your cards,” I returned, “and am on to
the game.”
“That's true enough. Did you hear what was said
in there?”
“No, you told me to stick here.”
“Still in a way you're on—Waldron must have
spilled part of the scheme to you, that's what got your
foot in the mess. Hell! I know Ivan Waldron, the


HARRIS TELLS HIS STORY 85
damned Russian Jew; he'd double-cross his best friend.
I used to know him when he ran a “fence down in
Mulberry Street when I was a kid. I’ll bet that was
about where you met him first. He's playing up with
the big ones now, but he is the same damned liar and
sneak he was then—always after some one else to pull
his chestnuts out of the fire. Then he comes along,
and grabs them, and you go over the road. What
was it he told you?”
“Not very much,” I said, wondering how far I had
better go, yet feeling it necessary to relate enough to
convince him that I was really conversant with the
situation, and endeavoring to imitate his style of
speech. “He caught on to my being here, and met me
at Halligans. After a bit of footwork, he coughed
up what he was after—a safe hand for a big job.
According to his story there was a gang of conspira-
tors here—birds from South America mostly—who
had been rounded up by this fellow Alva to pull off
some frightfulness, or other. I didn't catch on to just
what it was, and perhaps Waldron himself didn't
lanow, or care. Some damn revolution, I took it to
be. What interested him most was the amount of
money certain guys in Europe were sending over for
this fellow Alva to spend. Waldron explained how
he got hold of the scheme. It seems he's in with the
bunch to some extent; that is, they use him whenever
they need to, and occasionally hand him a bunch of
money—it's never too dirty for him to touch. Any-
how, he knew enough to put me wise to this dump,
gave me the pass-word, and all that. It looked as


86 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
though there might be something in it, so I blew over
here to-night just to take a look. I didn’t know there
was any pow-wow on, of course, but just wanted to
see the layout. I was merely prowling around when
I ran into you.”
“I see,” he muttered, as I came to an end, chewing
savagely on his cigar. “Did the Russian say anything
about me?”
“Not a whisper. I supposed I had a clear run for
the money, except his rake-off.”
“The dirty dog. Because I didn't show up on the
dot, he was ready to ditch me. Oh, I don't blame
you, Daly. Naturally when you was shown a good
thing you started to cop it. Any guy would do the
same; but I’d like to get my mitts on that damned
Russian. Now listen, and I'll tell you the straight
story. I’m going to need you, and we'll divide fifty-
fifty, leaving this guy to suck his thumbs. Is that
a go?”
“He’s sure nothing to me—shoot.”
Harris poured out a stiff drink, and put it down;
then touched a match to the extinguished cigar. The
flame lit up his face, revealing its deep lines, and a
pair of watchful eyes. Somehow he had the appear-
ance of a fox.
“Waldron sent me a cable in England about a month
ago,” he explained briefly. “He didn’t make the thing
very clear, only that he had a big deal on, and wanted
me in on it. I wouldn't have paid much attention to
him if business had been worth a darn over there,
but it wasn’t. It was rotten. Besides, I was getting


HARRIS TELLS HIS STORY 87
in bad, and had to lie low; so I took this as a life-saver.
I had made enough to get back on, and took a second-
class passage on the Vulcan. It was not a big boat,
and, to escape close inspection, I went aboard at
Queenstown. At that time I had no more notion what
was up than a blind rat. I was just desperate enough
to take a chance.”
He paused and relit his stub, with an oath at find-
ing it again useless.
“Then things begun to happen. I was room-mate
with a bird named Horner, who claimed to live in
Detroit. He had a bit of Spanish accent—which only
cropped out now and then—that made me think maybe
his name was a fake, and so I got to watching the
guy, for lack of something better to do. He must
have cottoned to me, for we got a bit chummy, and
in that way I picked odds and ends out of him which
set me thinking—his stories didn’t quite dovetail; and
so finally I said to myself: “Old boy, you’ve got some-
thing up your sleeve; this voyage ain't no pleasure trip
for you, and it’s up to me to find out what your game
is.” He was quite a foxy bird, though—one of these
tall, rawboned, secretive cusses, who talk a lot, but
never say nothing, and he came near getting my goat.
I went through his baggage, of course, but that was
just ordinary stuff—he only had one grip, which he
left unlocked; but I did get onto a pocket belt the
fellow wore around his waist. He never let that get
away from him night or day. I studied every damn
way I could think up to get a peep at it, but nothing


88 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
gave me a chance. I came near going bugs over the
thing.”
He laughed, exhibiting a row of rather ugly teeth
behind his thin lips.
“Then the devil must have helped me. One night
—five days out, for we were a slow boat—we ran into
a hell of a storm. I've been across seven times, and
never struck a worse shindig than we ran into. We
both of us tumbled out, and began hustling on our
duds. I was close beside Horner, when a wave struck
us that must have been a monster. He was trying
to get a shoe on, and went plunging head-on into the
side of the ship. I reckon it nearly brained him, but,
to make things sure, I handed him one to the jaw be-
fore he got his senses, and he went out for the count.
Then, believe me, I didn’t lose no time in frisking the
guy—and, say, what do you think I found?”
I shook my head, unwilling to interrupt, fascinated
with his description.
“The fellow was a revolutionary agent. I didn't
get onto all of it then—I didn’t have time, but I found
a Letter of Credit for a million dollars, and a memo-
randa of how it was to be delivered. The damn thing
wasn't any good to me—it was to be paid to this fel-
low by a banker in New York named Krantz—but it
sure made my mouth water just to see it—a million
dollars, good old U. S. currency. Can you beat it?”
“Looked easy—you had it, and you didn't have it.”
“You said it, Daly. I never was in such a pickle.
I didn’t dare keep the thing, and it wouldn't have
done me any good if I had; there was no way of my


HARRIS TELLS HIS STORY 89
cashing the paper. What the hell could I do? I had
to think blame quick before that guy got his head
back. If I denounced him, the game was all off; if
I held on to the stuff he'd report his loss soon as he
landed in New York, and that letter of credit wouldn't
be worth the paper it was written on. . . . Say, I was
in some boat; but, believe me, I had no notion of giv-
ing up that million—it looked darned good.”
“I should say yes,” and I leaned forward to show
my interest. “And from what I know of you, Har-
ris, that guy had no show on earth. Did you croak
him?”
He grinned, evidently pleased at the note of ad-
'miration in my voice, and tossed down another drink.
“That never ain’t been in my line. Of course I was
tempted to—a cool million would tempt any guy. But
right then I couldn’t see just what good it would do;
it wouldn’t get me the coin. No, I just shoved every-
thing back exactly where it come from, and fetched
the steward. Between us we hoisted Horner back into
the bunk and dosed him with water till he came to.
First thing he did was to feel for that belt, and he
never got wise that it had ever been touched. Any-
how, he never let on to no suspicion.”


CHAPTER XI: THE PLANS OF A THIEF
WAS impatient for him to continue, but he sat
there chuckling to himself, and toying with a fresh
cigar.
“Well, what did you do?”
“Played it safe and sure. I’m too old a bird to be
caught napping. I put in most of that night holding
wet cloths to Horner's head, and thinking out some
plan of action. Before morning he thought I was the
best fellow he ever knew, and I had the guy where I
wanted him. For one of his breed, he was rather a
friendly cuss. This was how I mapped it out. That
Letter of Credit had to be turned into currency be-
fore it could do me any good, and the only way that
might be done was through this guy Alva. I must get
to him somehow in a way that would put me next his
scheme, so I'd know when he had the cash. Once I
got these details attended to in little old New York,
the swag was as good as my own. I knew a dozen
guys that would bump Horner off for a hundred if
it come to that—so the price wasn’t high. A million!
oh, man; and it had dropped right into my lap. But
to do this it was necessary that I should be Horner.
That was as plain as the nose on my face; as Horner,
coming with credentials, and a Letter of Credit, Alva
would be bound to receive me with open arms—see!
90


THE PLANS OF A THIEF 91
He couldn't suspect but what I was all right, and
would naturally cough up all necessary information.
After that I figured it would be easy enough. But
how was I to become Horner?”
“You couldn't divvy with him?”
“I should say not; he was a square guy. It didn't
take me five days to find that out. So there wasn’t
but one way out of it—I had to put Horner out of
commission, and cop his belt. It was either that, or
lose a million.”
I looked at him, with a sickening feeling of horror
I found hard to suppress, but he went on indifferently
in the same cool, calm voice.
“There's no use going into details, Daly. We
landed good friends, and Horner was in a strange
land. You know New York pretty well, and I lost
him the first afternoon down on the East Side. I
never did know just what became of the fellow, but
the next morning I was alone in a back room in Green-
wich, and had his belt with me.” He chuckled grimly.
“There wasn’t much in it, except the Letter of Credit,
but all I needed to know—a small code book, a few
memorandums of some deal in London involving ni-
trate concessions in Chile, two hundred dollars in Eng-
lish money, and a notation as to where, and when,
Krantz could be seen privately. This last gave me a
clew as to why Horner had been in no hurry to hunt
him up, but was so willing to drill around with me
a while when we first came ashore. It was the next
night he was to call on the banker up in Le Compte
Street.”


92 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“Le Compte? What number?”
“247 Le Compte. Do you know anybody there?”
“No; only Le Compte is an old stamping ground
of mine. Go on; you went there, of course.”
“Sure. Krantz didn’t know me from Adam, not
even my name. I was just 108 to him, but he was
mighty nervous, just the same, and anxious to get
away. I could see that. I don’t think it was his house
either; just an ordinary-looking shack, brick, three
stories and a basement. There wasn’t a light showed
in it when I got there, but that guy was looking for
me all right—he had the door open before I had time
to rap even.”
“You saw no one else?”
“Not a soul, and I didn’t waste no time looking,
either. That banker was business all right, and he put
me through the whole bundle of tricks before he'd
even let me sit down. You could get into a Masonic
lodge easier than into that front parlor with him at
the door. I had to lie some, but mostly I was posted
well enough so as to give him what he was looking
for. Anyhow, I passed, and after that he was rather
decent. Took me into a room, and gave me a drink,
besides asking me about affairs in Europe. Hell, I
didn't know only what I’d seen in the papers—but I
gave him an earful, and on the strength of his
name, an’ cussed England for all I was worth—which
at that time was about a million bucks. Then I
handed over the Letter of Credit, and he jammed it
into his pocket like it was a scrap of paper. I don't
remember that he even looked at it. After that he


THE PLANS OF A THIEF 93
was for getting rid of me, the sooner the better. But
I needed to know where Alva was, so I hung on, tell-
ing the old guy I had a private message that I had to
deliver personal—straight from them financeers in
London. So, after skirmishing about a while, he
jotted down an address on a bit of paper, and the next
thing I knew I was out in the street, with that gripped
in my mitt. Maybe I was lucky not to have got
beaned; only if he had made a crack, I’d a got him
first.” -
“And then, of course, you hunted up Alva?”
“The next morning, before any bank opened. I
thought over it all night, and got up a peach of a
story. I needed it, too, for this Alva was a smooth
guy. It took some nerve to get him, but I knew,
through Horner's memorandum, some things about
him he never supposed was known up in this country;
so when I sprung them, natural-like, he quit being
offish, and gave me the glad hand.”
“Who is he? A crank?”
“Not by a damned sight. He's a captain in the
Chilean army, military attaché to the embassy at
Washington, intrusted with certain work. But he's
really working to overthrow the present Chilean gov-
ernment—gettin' up a revolution down there. He's
no cheap skate by a long ways. Say, after I finally
got him loosened up, he was a prince. I lied until I
was black in the face, but I must have kept within
bounds, for he got to liking me real well. He was a
high-roller, and I put him onto some things in New
York he had never been steered against before. That


THE PLANS OF A THIEF 95
“Sure; that's what the meeting was about to-night.
The Junta in Washington says they might begin to
produce results. Alva will have to pry that stuff out
of Krantz to-morrow, and get busy. Personally I
think the fellow is half afraid; but it's up to him now
to fish, or cut bait.” -
“What are they after—ships?”
“Well, they’ve got to have some, but mostly arms;
then there is a guy down there who's got to be croaked.
I don’t care what it is; when the time comes they
won’t find a handful of change to act with. I’m some
patriot, I am, and I’ll put a bigger crimp in their sails
than the whole United States government secret serv-
ice.” -
“But see here, Harris,” soberly, “how do you know
you are going to get this? Of course I see the game
the way you’ve mapped it out, but suppose Krantz
pays in check, or draft. That spikes your gun.”
“Hell, yes; but he won’t. I’ve sized up this man
Krantz. He's in the game for money. I don’t be-
lieve that bird gives a whoop in hell for this, or any
other cause—this is just business to him. He's ad-
vancing this coin out of his own pocket on a commis-
sion—see! A damn good commission at that. He
don’t care who wins the damn Revolution, for he gets
his share out of the pot right away. He's got oodles
of money, and this is no bank investment he's han-
dling. He's playing the game secretly on his own ac-
count. Get that? He expects it may be a year, or
perhaps two, before he can cash in on the deal, but
when it does come his share of profit will be likely


96 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
a hundred thousand. That beats bank interest, and
the old bird is willing to take the chance.”
“Quite likely that's true; no bank would finance
such a wild project.”
“Of course not—the directors would throw a fit.
Well, now that kind of a guy, in on a raw deal like
this, is going to play safe, isn't he? He isn't going
to leave any evidence lying around to hang himself
with—any drafts, or checks to pass through the clear-
ing house? Not on your life; he is too wily a fox
for that. Krantz knew this was coming, and he's been
cashing in for six months or more to be ready for
it. And now he's got the currency stored away, no-
body knows where but himself. When Alva comes
for it, it will be handed out secretly, and that old bird
will crumple up the receipt in his pocket, and wait till
he can cash in, through those guys in London. So
now it's up to us to locate the dough; we've got to
separate it from either Krantz, or Alva—I'm for
Alva.”
“Why?”
“Because the job looks easier. He's human, and
no money grubber. He's just as liable as not to carry
the whole wad around with him; damn it. I think
that's just what he will do, for he won’t dare deposit
such a sum anywhere. That's why I have laid back
so long, without attempting to strike—I’m banking
on the army captain to offer me a soft thing. What
do you say?”
I had the whole story now in a nutshell, and it was
one to think over. That Harris had played his cards


THE PLANS OF A THIEF 97
well was sufficiently evident. Now I must be fully
as cautious in playing mine. I felt the fellow had
given me his full confidence; actually believing me to
be Daly, and on the same trail with him; desiring to
use me in what was probably the biggest job of his
life, he had been led into the indiscretion of confiding
to me the full truth of his scheme. If I kept my
head, and nerve, I had it in my power to block every-
thing, and thus bring the whole gang to swift justice.
I realized the danger of such an attempt, the imme-
diate peril of endeavoring to accomplish this alone, yet
at the moment perceived no other way. I must remain
Daly, and appear eager to obtain my share of the
spoils.
“A slick piece of work, Harris,” I admitted ad-
miringly, “and so far as I can judge you have figured
out the chances about right. They look good. If we
can locate the swag, and cop it, there won't be much
need for any getaway. Those fellows won't dare put
up any strong hurrah, for if they did the government
would be down on them like a ton of bricks. I'm
with you, old man—shake!”
Our hands clasped, and Harris, evidently gratified
at my words, helped himself to the bottle, and poured
out a liberal dose into the clean glass.
“That is what I thought you would say, Harry,”
more familiarly. “Come on now and drink with me.”
I put the stuff down, rather feeling the need of it,
and desiring to establish our intimacy more closely.
“Then that's settled, George—yes, I’ll have another
cigar. By the way,” as I lit up, “there was another


98 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
thing I wanted to ask you about. You said there was
a woman here from Washington. What's the idea?”
His face darkened, and he let out an oath.
“Damn if I know, but I guess it's all right. Still I
don’t quite cotton to the dame. She's square enough,
as far as that is concerned, but I would rather she
hadn’t horned in just now. This is how I get it from
Alva. Those Junta fellows—the big ones, you know
—think this New York bunch is pretty slow; they
want some action for their money. So Señor Mendez,
who seems to be engineering the deal, decides to send
somebody over here to stir up the criminals. But
he's watched every minute; secret service men are as
thick as flies, and if one of his underlings was to leave
for New York, he'd never get ten feet without being
spotted. Mendez is wise to this, so he gathers in pri-
vately a skirt he believes is all right, and sends her.
It's not a decent job for a woman, and that's what
makes it safe. He made a good guess, too; that fe-
male is as smart as a steel trap. She gave me the
cold shivers.”
“You don’t think she suspects you?”
“No, I don’t; there ain’t no reason why she should;
but she gave me the once over, all right, and I am
perfectly willing to know she is on her way back to
Washington. I never did play in any luck with a
woman in the game—perhaps that's what makes me
afraid of 'em.”
“What’s her name?”
“Gessler, so Alva said—Marie Gessler; South
American, I suppose; anyhow, she talked that lan-


THE PLANS OF A THIEF 99
guage like a native. I steered clear of her most of
the time. Somehow she got my goat. However,
that's nothing to worry over.” He glanced at his
watch. “The dame's safely off by this time. What
do you say—let's go home.”
I signified my willingness.


CHAPTER XII: THE DESERTED AUTOMO-
BILE
S we passed out together through the narrow
passage, extinguishing the lights behind us, the
one overpowering desire in my mind was to be once
more alone, so as to think over, and piece together
as best I might this fabric of villainy with which I
was confronted. The situation was fairly clear, yet
there were strange lights and shadows in it I found
hard to reconcile. Moreover, what should I do? How
could I serve best—by immediately telling my story
to the officers of the law, and thus washing my hands
clean? or by continuing to enact the rôle of Harry
Daly, and in this way entrapping these fellows red-
handed? I had had fully enough of Harris for the
present. His boastfulness and pride of crime dis-
gusted me. I had no desire to be associated with
the fellow, or pretend, even for a worthy purpose, to
be his companion. Yet, all this had happened so sud-
denly and unexpectedly I could not determine the best
course to pursue. I remained dazed and confused, the
only clear decision being an eagerness to bring him,
and these others also, to justice.
We were the last to leave the place, and emerged
from the building into the deserted yard, leaving all
in silence and darkness behind us. The door closed
100


THE DESERTED AUTOMOBILE 101
tightly, secured by a night-latch, and we stood mo–
tionless in the drizzle. By that time I was ready with
a suggestion, but by good fortune he took the initia-
tive.
, “We better slip out of here alone, I reckon,” he
whispered. “That's the way they all do, for occa-
sionally a bull prowls along this alley. I’ll go up this
way, and then you take a sneak through the lumber
yard. Likely we'll catch the same car going down.
If we don’t, look me up at Costigan's place—you
know where that is?” -
“Sixth Avenue, isn’t it?” |
“Sure. Jack is a good fellow, and the bulls never
bother him. Ask for Parker, and it will be all right.
If I ain’t in, leave a note where I can hunt you up. I
got to keep my eye on Alva to-morrow, so he don’t
get away with the stuff.”
“You expect him to draw?”
“Not before night; but, just the same, I want to
know for sure. You wait here five minutes, for I’ve
got the longest trip to make. You'll show up all
right?”
“You can’t lose me; it looks too good.” !
He chuckled and patted me on the shoulder in an
excess of friendliness, evidently feeling to some ex-
tent the whisky he had been imbibing so freely.
“That's the talk, Daly. Well, so long.” t
He slipped out through the gate into the dark of the
alley, leaving it slightly ajar for me to follow. I,
sheltered myself behind the high board fence and lis-
tened to the soft slush of his feet in the mud. The-


102 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
sound vanished, and all about was silence and dark-
ness. I waited only long enough to be sure he was
safely out of the way, and then followed, eager to be
off. One thing was certain, I would make no effort
to join him on the car; I would use the remainder of
the night to decide the future, working out the prob-
lem alone.
To make certain that I avoided any possibility of
encountering the fellow again, I passed directly
through the deserted lumber yard before emerging
upon Gans Street. This thoroughfare was at this hour
desolate enough, not a light showing in the houses,
or a moving figure visible as far as I could see in the
dimness of the street lamps. The rain was steady,
the pavement shimmering with moisture, the only
sound the pattering of the drops as they fell. If any
policemen were abroad I saw no signs, and, with col-
lar turned up to my ears, I chose to walk rather than
seek the block to the east and the possibility of a
Street car.
The factory district ended in a row of houses, dark
and silent at this hour, but the walking was good, and
I pushed forward briskly, so buried in thought as to
become practically insensible to the unpleasant sur.
roundings. The night had been a full one, far ex-
ceeding my expectations, yet left me more puzzled
than ever as to my own duty. While there was in my
mind no doubt regarding the facts—the existence
of a conspiracy to foment revolution, and destroy
property; while I could even name many of those in-
volved, and lead officers of the law to their secret


THE DESERTED AUTOMOBILE I03
place of rendezvous; while I had actually overheard
some of their devilish planning—yet I had no proofs
to submit outside of my own unsupported testimony.
'So far I knew of no act of crime with which these
men could be connected; they were merely proposing
a future attack on a neutral government. If, how-
ever, I consented to play my part with Harris, I would
not only be in ample time to circumvent any damage
Alva and his gang might contemplate, but also gain
ample evidence for their conviction and expulsion
from this country. In addition to this I would be in
position to block the daring plans of this international
thief. Altogether it seemed to me that the wiser
course for me to pursue at present was to wait, and
watch, ready to act at any moment, but keeping my
own council until certain that the specific moment had
arrived.
Nor in this decision was I oblivious to the strange
impression left upon me by my encounter with Marie
Gessler. She had interested me oddly, and I could
not drive her memory from my thoughts. Our mo–
ment of conversation had been peculiar, and her words
and actions remained as a constraint. Why had she
so deliberately saved me from discovery by those
others—her companions? Why had she stood there,
her hand on the door, and talked to me in that mock-
ing way? Had she a purpose, an aim? Did she be-
lieve my explanation? or was her suspicion aroused
into a determination to verify it in some way? Al-
though I could not decide, yet doubtless the latter
theory was the most probable. That was why I had


I04 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
been pledged to call at “247 Le Compte Street,” and
ask for “Miss Conrad.” This was the same place
where Harris had secretly met Krantz. Evidently it
was another headquarters for these precious villains.
Once there, and safely in their power, the truth of my
identity could easily be established. Was that her idea?
If so, who then was “Miss Conrad”? Not Marie
Gessler, certainly, under another name, for she would
have returned to Washington. There was no doubt
as to that, for Alva had agreed to take her direct to
the depot in his own car, and would scarcely leave
until she was safely on the train. Probably the other
woman was a confederate, with whom she would com-
municate by telephone. My clearer judgment told me
all this, made me fully conscious of the danger of
keeping this appointment, yet never swerved me from
an intention to do so. Marie Gessler's eyes were
frank and honest; they had looked directly into my
own, pleadingly I imagined, and I retained a blind
faith in her no ordinary circumstances would over-
come. She was involved in this criminal conspiracy
—there could be no doubt as to that—but why? under
what conditions? What could ever have driven so
womanly a woman to such an association? Was her
appeal to me an effort at assistance? Was she blindly
endeavoring to learn in this way if I was worthy of
trust, and confidence? This hope would not down; it
remained insistent, persistent. I would keep my word;
I would go to the place designated, at the hour set;
I would go armed, prepared for whatever might oc-
cur of treachery—but I would go. Perhaps here was


THE DESERTED AUTOMOBILE 105
the key to the whole mystery; and once I solved her
connection with the plot, particularly if it absolved
her from blame, and the necessity of exposure, I
could go forward with clear conscience, and land these
others where they justly belonged.
I must have covered four or five blocks immersed
in such thought, almost forgetful of my surroundings,
my head bent low before the rain, my feet carelessly
slushing through the water in pools on the sidewalk.
I met no one, heard no sound to arouse me; all about
was dark, desolate, forlorn. Then suddenly I became
conscious of some unusual obstruction just ahead. It
was at a black corner, where the street light above
had been extinguished, and the consequent gloom ren-
dered objects grotesque and unfamiliar. At first I
took it for a wrecked wagon lying against the curb,
but another step forward revealed the truth—a de-
serted touring car, its red tail-light plastered with
mud, and barely visible. I approached with a feeling
of relief; it was not wrecked, no sign of accident was
to be noticed. The front wheels rested against the
curb as though its owner was visiting somewhere near,
and expected to return at any moment. Even in that
dim light I could see the machine was no common car,
a sedan, its glass brilliant in spite of the rain spatters,
and its paint gleaming brightly.
I stared about wonderingly, but could perceive noth-
ing to account for the presence of such a car, or its
apparent desertion. One side of the street was a
vacant lot, and the only semblance of a dwelling op-
Tosite was a one-story cottage, the outlines barely dis-


CHAPTER XIII: I SEEK MISS CONRAD
GRASPED the thing in my hand, holding it up
incredulously into whatever faint light I could
find. There was no question as to its identity; I
could not doubt. This was the same peculiar orna-
ment I had observed that evening in the girl's hat, or
else its exact mate. I recalled the quaint shape of the
miniature hilt too clearly to be mistaken. Then this
car was the one in which she had departed with Gus-
tave Alva two hours before. What had occurred in
the meanwhile? Something serious, evidently. The
dagger on the floor would indicate a struggle, or at
least a hasty departure from the vehicle.
I stood staring at it, slowly comprehending the prob-
able meaning of those dark stains on the blade. Their
nature could not be determined in so dim a light, yet
when I touched them with my finger it became discol-
ored. My God! could it be blood? Blood! it was
blood; then this had been a scene of tragedy, of awful
crime perhaps. The discovery sickened me, but I had
to go on. Something compelled me to seek the truth.
I was alone, alone in the dark; not a sound broke the
stillness; not a movement proclaimed any other pres-
ence. No one suspected yet; no one had even stum-
bled upon the deserted car. I wrenched open the for-
ward door and peered fearfully within. I could not
107


I SEEK MISS CONRAD 109
dashed it to the floor and fled into the darkness, leav-
ing the rear door open behind her.
That was the story; that must be the story. My
mind pictured the scene in all its horror. Yet what
could account for such an act? What cause could
transform this woman, this smiling-faced girl, into a
murderess? Her leaving that weapon behind would .
seem to proclaim that the deed was done in haste, on
the spur of the moment; that it had not been in any
way premeditated and planned. Otherwise she would
have guarded against such danger of discovery. Why,
that carelessness alone might ruin every hope of es-
cape, might bring her to the electric chair—it was
damning evidence.
I dare not remain there in the presence of this grisly
spectacle. To be found would fasten the hideous
crime upon me, while such a story as I must tell
would never be believed. I did not know even who
she really was, or where she might be. I cared noth-
ing for Alva's death; horrible as it was, I was con-
scious of no regret, but I must not be mixed up in
the affair. I could make no report to the police of
what I had found, or what I suspected. The only
thing for me to do was to disappear, and leave the
police to make their own discovery. And the knife?
the weapon which had done the deed? What should
I do with that?
I did not hesitate long. I would protect her from
discovery if I could; at least until I was myself con-
vinced of her guilt. There was no longer the slight-
est doubt in my mind but what this was her act.


I SEEK MISS CONRAD 111
started to overcome? Would it continue under some
other leadership? Who? And the money? what
would become of that? What readjustment of plans
would Harris consider necessary? I must see him at
once in the morning, yet not until after the news-
papers gave him an inkling of what had occurred. I
had no intention of confessing even to him my knowl-
edge of the tragedy. Once I knew his conception of
the situation, I could better regulate my own action.
Meanwhile the only safe course was to remain still,
and profess ignorance. Then I had the engagement
at 247 Le Compte Street—that might reveal some-
thing of importance to help me solve the problem.
I got up, removed the dagger from my pocket, and
examined it in the electric light. It was a toy weapon,
yet sufficiently dangerous for all that, and I looked
at it with a sense of horror. How could a woman
have ever thrust even that keen blade with one blow
through to the heart? Yet the evidence was before
me. Those dark stains were blood—human blood—
dried now, but unmistakable in their proof of crime.
I washed the steel, leaving the blade bright and pol-
ished; then wrapped it carefully, and hid it away at
the very bottom of my bag, locking the latter against
possible inspection by a curious maid. I felt relieved
once I had the weapon out of sight. Dawn found me
at the window, restless, dispirited, merely waiting im-
patiently for some opportunity to act.
The morning papers contained no reference to the
tragedy—the body of the dead man had not been
found in time. There would be noise enough when it


112 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
was, no doubt, for Alva must have been widely known
and ranked as of some importance. Even if his iden-
tity was never established, if no suspicion was aroused
as to his position, and secret work in this country, yet
the very mystery of the case would create a sensation.
But perhaps he had papers on his person of value. I
regretted not having searched his pockets. Then the
conviction came that possibly here might be the true
solution of the murder—a desire to secure some docu-
ments the man carried.
I went down to Costigan's place on foot, not being
entirely certain of the exact location. It was an ordi-
nary corner saloon, with a stairway leading to rooms
above. In the morning hours the bar-room was nearly
deserted, but the man at the bar, looking me over
cautiously, said that “Mr. Parker” had already gone
out, and had left no word as to when he would re-
turn. I was rather glad, yet I left a telephone num-
ber, with a request that I be called whenever he came
back. I waited impatiently for the call in my room,
but none came. It dawned upon me that in all prob-
ability Harris was frantically endeavoring to find the
whereabouts of Alva, as yet having no suspicion of
his death. I telephoned Costigan's, but “Mr. Parker”
had not returned.
I sent out for a noon edition, eagerly scanning its
columns, but finding nothing. Surely the deserted car,
with its grim burden, must have been discovered be-
fore this. I felt an extreme longing to read the de-
tails, to learn if any clew had been found, any theory
advanced as to the cause of the murder. The police


114 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
that the numbers alone served to separate them into
units—red brick, three stories with basement, and high
front stone steps. Mustering my courage, and with a
feeling of deep excitement, I advanced up the steps
of the one numbered 247, and, finding refuge in the
outer vestibule, rang the bell. I heard no distant tin-
kle, but within a moment or two the door opened a
crack, held in that position by a chain, and the face
of a middle-aged woman peered out at me. She was
framed in duskiness, and I was scarcely conscious of
anything but her eyes staring unfriendly into my face.
“Well, what is it?” she snapped, in no encouraging
tone.
“I should like to see Miss Conrad,” I began apolo-
getically. “I have an appointment with her.”
“Not here yer ain’t, young man, for there ain't no-
body by that name in this house.”
“Are you sure? This is 247, is it not? That was
the number given me. She was to be here at two
O'clock.”
“This yere is 247 all right. I ain’t denyin' that,”
the voice more acid than ever, “but there ain’t no Miss
Conrad yere; so that's all there is about it.”
“But there must be.” -
“Must be nuthin'! I guess I know. I’ve been yere
seventeen years, an’ ther never was nobody of that
name ever in this house. Besides, I'm house-cleanin'
and can’t stand yere talkin’ all day.”
“Do you know a man named Krantz?” I flung at
her desperately, in a last effort to arouse some re-
sponse, “Adolph Krantz.”


CHAPTER XIV: THE THREADS BECOME
TANGLED
STARED a moment at the blank door in bewil-
derment; then turned away, and slowly retraced
my steps to the street. So the young woman had de-
liberately lied to me; had merely been amusing her-
self at my expense; had sent me on this wild goose
chase so that she might laugh over my simplicity. But
was this true? If so, how was I to account for the
strange coincident that both she and Harris had named
the same number, and street? It could not have oc-
curred merely through chance. Something must have
happened in the meanwhile to overthrow all her plans,
and to cause this rabid housekeeper to even deny her
very existence. And I held the key of explanation—
the murder of Alva.
Beyond all doubt here was both cause and effect.
The girl had intended to either see me herself, or by
proxy in the form of this mysterious Miss Conrad.
But what had since occurred had compelled a sudden
change in plans, a necessity for concealing her escape.
There was no way in which she could notify me, but
she might very easily have telephoned to her land-
lady. And, if the place was what I suspicioned it to
be, she might have every confidence that her secret
would be guarded.
116


THE THREADS BECOME TANGLED 117
I glanced up at the front of the house, searching
the windows, but without results. The curtains were
closely drawn to keep out the sun, and the place ap-
peared forlorn and deserted. At the delicatessen shop
on the corner I gained a gleam of light, but merely
enough to strengthen my former judgment. The
keeper, a flaxen-haired Swede, was loquacious enough,
but had only been in business there a few weeks.
“247 Le Compte, you say. Yes, she takes roomers;
some are men, and some are women. They come in
here and buy, but I never ask the names; it was all
cash, so why should I care? Sometimes I hear them
call names—sure; but never Conrad. The woman
what keeps the house? Wait and I tell you; it is on
the books; ah! you read just as she wrote it for me—
Mrs. Augusta Waldron; maybe a widow? What you
think? Bah, she never like anything I have to sell. I
care nothing for trade with her—a cat this Mrs. Au-
gusta Waldron.”
I left him with the familiar sound of the name ring-
ing in my ears—the whole thing was traveling in a
circle, and the circle was growing continually more
compact. Blindly, I was stumbling up against it here
and there most unexpectedly. Augusta Waldron, be-
yond doubt, was Ivan Waldron's wife. No wonder
her house was the designated meeting place for these
people. I was still up against the ring of the con-
spiracy, but I could perceive no way of breaking
through that ring except by the aid of Harris. And,
to count upon his assistance, I must continue to suc-
cessfully play the rôle of Harry Daly.


118 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
I returned to the hotel obsessed with this decision.
Only as I stood before the door did I realize that the
newsboys were calling out, “Extra! All about the
murder!” I felt that my face was white, and that
my hand shook, yet I hastily bought copies of half a
dozen sheets, shoving them in a bunch into my pockets.
At the desk I asked if any call had been registered
for my room. There was none, and I hurried up to
where I could be alone.
The reports were mostly alike, exceedingly brief
and unsatisfactory, except that they conveyed the im-
pression that thus far the police possessed no real clew
as to the perpetrator of the crime. They threatened
much, and hinted vaguely at certain suspicious char-
acters, yet it was plainly apparent they were circling
about in the dark. They had discovered—through a
card in his pocket—the identity of the dead man, and
this had been made certain by a man or two about
town with whom he possessed acquaintance. One of
these had even breathed a suspicion that Alva had
formerly been in the Chilean Army, an officer, but for
some reason the Chilean legation at Washington, when
approached on the matter by telegraph, promptly de-
nied all knowledge relative to any captain by that
name. One man interviewed recalled the fact that
Alva had once been engaged in the iron business in
Jersey City, but had closed down because of lack of
material. He was known to spend money freely, and
believed to be well off.
This was about the extent of the investigation as
reported. The police theory was robbery, as the man's


120 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
this Chilean revolutionary—the murder perhaps of
many innocent victims, and the destruction of much
valuable property. For Alva's death would hardly
stop the plotting already on foot. The money was
still here in New York ready to be used; the propa-
gandists at Washington would never permit it to long
lie idle. They would find somewhere another leader,
and I alone seemed to be in a position to balk their
hellish purpose. Perhaps it was even by their orders
that Alva had thus been put out of the way. He had
acted too slowly, and suspicion might have been
aroused as to his real purpose. On every side I was
assailed with doubts.
Yet, even if I held silent, I knew not in which di-
rection to turn. I had apparently lost all touch with
the girl. She had failed me completely—either by ac-
cident, or design. I could not so much as guess
whether she was in hiding, or had openly returned
with her report to Washington. She had simply van-
ished. Her appointment with me had served to re-
veal only one fact which might prove of importance
–247 Le Compte Street was undoubtedly a link in the
chain of the conspiracy; it was the home of Ivan
Waldron. Once I told this discovery to Harris the
way might be opened to closer investigation. But
what had become of Harris? It was already ap-
proaching six o'clock, and the man had not telephoned
me. Surely he must be aware by this time of the mur-
der of Alva; the uselessness of seeking longer to find
him alive. Was he also endeavoring to avoid me?
_*.
-- =-------- - - - - ------ ------------


THE THREADS BECOME TANGLED 121
was his purpose deceit? or had some suspicion arisen
in his mind as to my really being Harry Daly?
Aroused by this possibility, and unable to remain
quiet longer, I slipped a revolver from the depths of
my bag into a coat pocket, and departed again for
Costigan's, determined to learn the truth. The bar-
room was well filled, but not with a rough crowd.
Drinkers of both sexes were at the small tables, with
others lined up at the bar, yet the scene was orderly
enough, as the night was young. I approached the
same bartender with whom I had spoken in the morn-
ing, and he must have recalled me at once, for, with-
out answering my question, he turned and called out
to a heavily-set, red-faced fellow at the lower end of
the bar.
“Dan, here is that guy who was asking for Parker.
He ain't heard nuthin from him.”
The other came forward, elbowing his way roughly
through the crowd, and looked me searchingly in the
face. He had keen, shrewd eyes, a stubby gray mus-
tache, and closely-clipped hair. I noticed his hand
gripped on the edge of the bar, knotted and freckled.
“I’m Costigan,” he said shortly. “They tell me
you're hunting Parker. Did you have an appointment
With him?” -
“Yes; he was to meet me here this morning. Then
I left a telephone number, but he hasn't called me.”
“He ain’t been back; that's the reason. Come along
with rhe; I want a private word with you.”
. I followed him rather doubtfully, although his
words and actions appeared friendly enough in a gruff


THE THREADS BECOME TANGLED 123
don’t slop over; that ain’t his style. Besides, I don’t
never care what my customers are doin’. That ain’t
business; the less I know, the less I can tell if I’m
asked questions. Harris knows them are my princi-
ples, an' so he generally keeps his mouth shut mighty
tight 'round yere.”
“But he spoke about me?”
“Well, yes, in a way. But it wa’n’t no more than
I told yer. He had to go out afore you got 'round,
so he said you was comin', an’ for me to be decent to
yer whenever yer blowed in.”
“How long was he to be gone?”
“That's what's got my goat,” Costigan admitted
grimly. “He said he'd be back in an hour, but he
ain't showed up since, ner sent any word. I thought,
Mr. Daly, thet maybe you'd let me ask you if he was
on any kind of a job where he was liable ter be
pinched, er hurt? I don’t want to shove my nose into
your affairs, but I’m gettin' a little nervous 'bout
George, that's a fact. He sorter hinted that this was
a damn big job, an’ that you was goin' to it fifty-
fifty.”
Somehow the fellow gave me the impression of
being square—honest according to his lights—and
intensely loyal to his friends. Of course, I could not
inform him as to the whole story, but it might be of
benefit to give him some inkling of the situation. His
very life experience might yield some clew which
would give me a new start. He knew crime, and
the ways of criminals, and was evidently anxious to
serve Harris.


124 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“There's no harm, so far as I can see, in telling
you a part of the plan, Mr. Costigan,” I replied
slowly, endeavoring to guard my words carefully.
“I know Harris has every confidence in you, so I'll
take a chance. We're both on to a million-dollar pot
—easy money, it looks like—” -
“The hell! that's some boodle!” excitedly leaning
forward.
“It don’t come every day. I'll not explain details,
or how the two of us run together on the trail, and
agreed to split the pot. That's our business, you'll
admit.”
“Sure; what was it? a bank job?”
“Better than that—South American revolution
fund; coin sent over here from London to pay for
arms, and maybe a murder or so. It is all in one
bundle, and what we need to do is get our hands
on it.”
“Got it located?”
“Partly; but that is what caused the delay. We
know where the stuff is, but we're still scouting
around for a chance to grab it; it's locked up yet.”
“I see. Ain't been handed over to the gink who's
got to pay it out. That's what George is a-tracin'
out now, I suppose?”
“No doubt that is what he started after this morn-
ing-shadowing the fellows to whom it was to be
paid. What gets me is, why he doesn’t return—the
guy is dead.”
“Judas Priest! How do you know that? What's
happened?”


THE THREADS BECOME TANGLED 125
“Why, it's in all the papers; he was murdered last
night over in Jersey City—stabbed through the
back in an automobile. You saw it, didn't you?”
“Hell! that guy? He was a Chilean captain, or
something. What the devil was the name?”
“Alva, Gustave Alva.”
“That's it! yer don’t think that maybe George
bumped him off, do yer?”
“No; I know he didn’t; Harris was with me all
last evening.”
“And you haven’t any notion who did?”
I shook my head negatively. Costigan sat for some
moments, his chin cupped in his huge fist, his pipe
extinguished and his forehead creased in thought.
Then he looked up suddenly, a strange light in his
eyes.
“Say, Daly,” he asked in a hoarse whisper, “do
you know if there was a Russian Jew mixed up in
this affair anywhere?”
– -------


CHAPTER XV: A FRIEND AT THE MCALPIN
IS unexpected question startled me. In a way
it was an odd echo of the vague suspicion
which had been pursuing me ever since the early after-
noon. Somewhere there was a mysterious hand
operating—but whose hand? Was some one else
grasping for this prize also? willing to even commit
murder for such a reward? The suspicion had
haunted me, but who this apparition might be had
eluded my brain. Now it burst upon me in sudden
revealment.
“A Russian Jew?” I questioned. “Why should
you ask that?”
“Well, I'll tell you. Maybe it don't amount to
nothin', an’ then again it might give us the right steer.
A fellow they call Sly Levy’—he's a cheap thief, a
dip mostly—blew in yere last night with a note for
Harris. He left it with one o’ the night bar-keeps,
an’ seemed ter be in a hell of a hurry ter have it de-
livered. Joe he fetched the thing in here to me, after
Levy had gone, and I sorter got to wonderin’ whut
it was all about. George he's a friend o' mine, an I
knew he didn’t want nobody to know he was hanging
out at my place—see! Then again this cheap-skate
of a Levy is a stool. I caught him at it onct, an he
ain’t been around me none since. I couldn’t quite fig-
ure out what he should be bringing in a note to Harris
126


128 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
Costigan's mouth was open.
“Say,” he interrupted, “what's that kind of guy
got to do with George Harris?”
“He’s got this to do with him—he's out after the
coin. He saw some easy money, and naturally
reached out for it. He was the first one to get onto
this particular game. They were using him, this
Chilean gang, to pull their chestnuts out of the fire,
and that's how he tumbled to this bunch of money
floating about, begging somebody to pick it up. He
had wormed himself inside, and knew it was coming.
But he didn’t have nerve enough to tackle the game
alone. He wanted somebody else to run all the risk,
and then turn over his share. Do you get it now?”
“Sure; he blew the thing to Harris.”
“In a way—yes. He sent for him to come back
from England, but without explaining just what his
graft was. On the way over Harris picked up an-
other end of the same net, and went after it himself.
He wasn’t under any obligation to Waldron, and
preferred to play his hand alone.”
“And the Russian has found that out, and now he
butts in.”
“That's the way I’d read the cards, Costigan.”
He sat silent a long while, and I lit a cigar and
watched him, his great hands closing and unclosing,
as he slowly reviewed the situation.
“Say, this guy what was bumped off—did, who-
ever did it, get anything?”
“His pockets were rifled, the papers say—all but a
little change.”


A FRIEND AT THE MCALPIN 129
“That bird was after something. Are you sure
this fellow Alva didn't have that bunch of money
along with him?”
“No, I'm not sure, of course; but Harris had been
shadowing him for a month. They got as thick as
two brothers, and if the stuff had been drawn he
knew nothing about it—that's certain. Still, come to
think, Alva was with Krantz the same night. He
might have touched him.”
“With Who?”
“Krantz—Adolph Krantz—the banker. Kulb,
Krantz & Company, over in Wall Street,” I explained.
“The Letter of Credit was drawn on him—a private
matter, I understand.”
“Is he the same guy that ‘K’ stands for in the let-
ter?”
“No doubt. He and Harris had an interview at
247 Le Compte Street.”
“Le Compte, hey! I wonder who lives there?”
“Well, I can tell you—it's Ivan Waldron.”
His fist came crashing down onto the arm of his
chair.
“Hell! that's all clear enough then. He and George
are up to some deal together. George tried to shake
the fellow, and couldn’t, so he's doing the next best
thing to get a bit of the boodle. He's no baby, George
ain’t, and he'll show up right side out. Say, I believe
this Russian guy is the buck who got Alva.”
“Do you think so? Well, I am not so sure of that.
But, anyway, what shall we do?”
“Wait until George comes back. There ain't any


130 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
cause for us to butt in yet. This is his game, as I
see it. If he don't show up by morning, we'll look
over this shack on Le Compte, but just now there
ain't nothin' to do but sit 'round an' smoke. If it
was you, Mr. Daly,” he added grimly, “you wouldn’t
thank nobody to shove in uninvited—would yer
now?”
I was unconvinced by his argument, yet knew of
no way of answering it. He knew the characteris-
tics of Harris far better than I did, and the code of
honor among thieves. Whatever had happened to
“Gentleman George”—whether he had been bumped
off, was being held prisoner, or enjoying his portion
of the swag—Costigan was evidently not inclined to
investigate until after the expiration of what he
deemed a reasonable time. And without his help there
was little I could hope to accomplish. He must have
read my predicament in the expression of my face.
“It’ll come out all right, Daly,” he volunteered. “I
know George, an he ain't the kind to be outwitted
by no Russian Jew; he's been in the business ever
since he was a kid, and, believe me, he's as wise as
they make 'em. Let's have a drink, an' we'll call
it off for to-night. You leave me your telephone
number, an if anything happens I'll let you know.”
I took a taxi back to the hotel, feeling restless and
dissatisfied, yet unable to decide on any definite ac-
tion. The various threads seemed to be slipping from
my hands, and the mystery becoming darker with
every fresh discovery. Here was a new element sud-
denly thrown into the measure, overturning all my


A FRIEND AT THE MCALPIN I31.
former theories, and leaving me utterly unable to
solve the perplexing problem—Ivan Waldron.
As I asked for my key, the clerk handed it over,
together with a card in the box, which I read in be-
wilderment. “Mr. Philip Severn, C-145. Call Hotel
McAlpin.” Could this be Harris, endeavoring to
reach me privately with some message? or was it,
merely an acquaintance who had learned of my pres-
ence in the city? The latter supposition was hardly
probable; unquestionably it would prove to be Harris.
I found the McAlpin exchange number in the tele-
phone book and gained connection, my pulses throb-
bing with excitement. A woman's voice answered.
“The McAlpin.”
“This is Philip Severn. You left a call here at the
hotel for me.” -
“Oh, yes, Mr. Severn; just a moment, please; hold
the wire.”
I stood with the receiver at my ear, eager, won-
dering what was about to develop.
“Mr. Severn?” another woman's voice.
“Yes.”
“I am requested to ask you to come at once to the
parlor of the McAlpin, on the mezzanine floor—a
friend wishes to see you.”
“But really, I do not recognize your voice.”
“Which is not altogether strange, as I am only the
clerk on this floor. I am making this request in be-
half of a guest.”
“A man or a woman, may I ask?”
She laughed good-humoredly.


132 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“Really I am not at liberty to say. There is only
one certain way in which to satisfy your curiosity.”
“You were instructed not to answer? Is that it?”
, “I was told to say just what I have said, and no
more. You will come?”
“Yes, of course—”
Before I had really finished my sentence the con-
nection had been severed. However, there was no
doubt now in my mind but that it was Harris. He
had chosen this busy and highly respectable spot as
best adapted for an exchange of confidences, and had
taken every precaution to conceal his identity, not
even permitting his own voice to be heard over the
'phone. I took the subway, and was at the entrance
within twenty minutes, eager to learn what had ac-
tually transpired during the past twelve hours. With-
out using the elevator I passed up the marble stairs
to the mezzanine floor, pausing in uncertainty at the
top to look about in search of some familiar face. A
number of people were congregated about the railed
opening looking down into the lobby, while others
were scattered around on convenient divans, or at
small writing desks. From the recesses of the ladies’
room at the left came the strains of piano music, and
the sound of a soprano voice singing. The song
ceased to a clapping of hands. The faces I was able
to distinguish were all strange, and I moved forward
in search.
I had attained the opposite side of the room before
I came to a halt, suddenly arrested by a vision as
startling as unexpected. Leaning over the rail, gaz-


A FRIEND AT THE MCALPIN 133
ing intently down on the jostling crowd in the lobby
below, apparently unconscious of all else, was Marie
Gessler. There could be no doubt; I stood motion-
less, looking at her intently, satisfying myself that I
could not be deceived. No. It was certainly the
same girl I had talked with the evening before,
dressed more elaborately, changed somewhat in ap-
pearance by a more careful toilet, yet assuredly the
same. She must have felt the intensity of my stare,
and thus sensed my presence, for she suddenly looked
about with a little start, saw me instantly, and arose
to her feet. There was a second of hesitation, barely
perceptible, before she ventured a step forward, her
lips smiling, her gloved hand held out.
“You were very nice to come,” she exclaimed
quietly. “Especially in response to so ungracious a
message of invitation.”
“It was you then who sent for me?”
“Of course, and I even dreamed you would guess
who your mysterious caller was. Did you imagine
some one else?”
“I came rather blindly,” I admitted, unwilling to
mention Harris. “Your messenger refused to satisfy
my curiosity even to the extent of telling the sex of
the one calling.”
She laughed, quite at her ease now, and seemingly
amused.
“She was duly warned. I confess I feared you
might hesitate to respond if you once knew what
awaited you.”
“No fear of that.”


134 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“But I did not know,” her voice more earnest, her
eyes on my face questioningly. “Our meeting before
was not very conventional, and—well I hardly ap-
peared one you would care to associate with under
other circumstances—in a place like this, for instance.
You have not thought very well of me, have you?”
“I have been mystified; you seem to be two dis-
tinct personalities. I would have come, however, un-
der whatever conditions you chose to name.”
“Yes, now I believe you would. Let us go over
there in the corner where we can talk without being
overheard—there are two vacant chairs.”
We reached there, and seated ourselves in silence.
I felt the necessity of restraint, the desire to permit
her to lead the conversation in whatever direction she
thought best. Assuredly she had sent for me with
no idle purpose, and I would content myself with lis-
tening. She appeared younger in the bright light, her
face even more attractive than in my memory. Again
our eyes met, and I felt the quick throb of my heart.
The red lips laughed once more.
“You are thoroughly puzzled, are you not?” she
asked gayly. “Well, so was I, last night. It is only
right I should pay you back in your own coin; that
is perfectly fair, I am sure. Now I know who you
are, but I am still an enigma. You accepted me on
blind faith before; I wonder if you are willing to do
it again?”
“I can hardly refuse.”
“Answered like a gentleman. But suppose I tell
you nothing, and yet ask of you a dangerous service?


CHAPTER XVI: THE DAGGER HAT-PIN
OU mean I am to question you?”
“You may try, but I warn you, I am a very
difficult subject. I may answer, and I may not. If I
refuse, still you must pretend to be content. Are the
terms too rigorous?”
“It sounds like a test?”
“It is a test. I must remain a mystery, not from
any real desire to conceal my identity from you, but
because of a duty to others. Now I will tell you all
I can.”
“You greet me as Philip Severn to-night, yet last
evening I told you my name was Harry Daly. How
did you know I lied? and how did you discover who
I really was?”
Her eyes sparkled with enjoyment.
“I knew that would be your first question. The
answer is extremely simple. Did you wonder why I
held that door closely shut while we spoke together?
Why I did not instantly denounce you to those men
in the other room? Oh, you did! You knew you
were there surreptitiously, in disguise, under a false
name, masquerading as a friend of that fellow Hor-
ner. You knew it—well, so did I.” <
“But how could you know that? What gave you
such a suspicion? And, knowing it, why should you
desire to protect me?”
136


THE DAGGER HAT-PIN 137
“I’ll waive your last question; that can wait its
own answer.” She leaned toward me, and her ex-
tended hand touched a ring I wore.
“Because men who wear a Yale signet of 1899 are
not going to be connected with that kind of a gang,”
she said gravely. “At heart I believed so, and had
the courage to act on my belief. It chanced that I
saw that, before my eyes even scanned your face. It
decided my action.”
“But,” I exclaimed, bewildered, glancing from the
stone back into her eyes, which were no longer smil-
ing, but very earnest, “how did you recognize the
signet?”
“My brother wears one.”
“Your brother! in my class? You will not tell me
his name?”
“No, Mr. Severn. I have reason to believe you
l:now him very well, or did a few years ago. How-
ever, that was why I trusted you so suddenly. Of
course I did not know who you were then—only that
you were one of his class. I felt convinced no thief,
no traitor, no plotter of revolution would openly wear
that ring. I pinned my faith on the honor of old
Yale. That is why I kept silent, and asked you to
call at 247 Le Compte Street.”
“I did call,” rather indignantly. “And was in-
formed there was no ‘Miss Conrad’ residing in the
house.”
Her face brightened again into a smile.
“I suspected you might make some such discovery.
Yet your coming was appreciated; it afforded me the


THE DAGGER HAT-PIN 139
ington, D. C., G-145. Then I knew I had found
you.”
She laughed softly. “It was a remarkable relief
to thus be assured I had chosen wisely.”
“And your object was to request my aid?”
“Yes, it was altogether selfish.”
“Then you did not return to Washington?”
“There was really no need. Besides, circumstances
compelled me to change my plans.”
The answer instantly brought back to my mind
what those circumstances might be. Her immediate
presence, her ease of manner, and happy mode of
speech, had for the moment obliterated the dark
crime with which she was associated. Now the mem-
ory returned in all its repugnance. I could not keep
my lips silent.
“You know of Alva's death, I presume?” I asked,
endeavoring to put the question carelessly.
Her lips were grave again, but her clear eyes met
mine frankly. -
“I read what the papers said. It was very terrible.
Who do you suppose did it?” |
“The police seem to have no clew,” I answered, as-
tounded by her calmness. “I wondered if you knew
anything? He asked you to ride down with him, did
he not?”
“Why, yes, he did make such a suggestion, but I
never liked the man. Of course, I only met him that
night—you remember in the saloon, but he was very
disagreeable even during the short time we were to-
gether.”


140 - THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“Forward, you mean?”
“Not exactly; more the natural foreign insolence
toward women; a lack of respect to be felt rather
than expressed. Perhaps he had reason under the
circumstances to hold me cheaply. Nevertheless, I
resented it, and would not have ridden alone with him
at that hour for worlds. Mr. Krantz and I came
downtown together on a street car—he was the old
man, you may remember. I asked him to escort me.”
“I am very glad to hear you say that.”
“Glad! Why, what do you mean?” her eyes wid-
ened, with sudden apprehension. “You did not sup-
pose I was with Alva when he was murdered, did
you? How could you think anything like that?”
“Yet is it so strange after all?” I defended, rather
indignantly. “In a way it seemed impossible enough
to connect you even indirectly with such a crime. But
I have only known you as an associate with these
men. In truth, I know very little more regarding
you, even now. You meet them secretly, bearing
credentials and orders from high Junta conspirators,
who are plotting against the very life of their coun-
try. You know their plans, and are aiding them. I
know enough of this kind of political character to
be aware that these plotters would hesitate at noth-
ing to achieve their ends—not even murder. Why,
under such conditions should I make an exception in
your case—merely because you are a woman?”
She lifted her hand, as though to ward off a phys-
ical blow.
“So you actually believed me capable of that atroc-


THE DAGGER HAT-PIN I41
ity? Perhaps you are justified, if you think me a
Chilean.”
“Are you not?”
“No, I am not Chilean, Mr. Severn. I am an
American girl, as loyal to my country as my ancestors.
I tell you that, but at present I will say no more.
But please do not think such things of me; do not
say such things. I was not with Alva in his car. I
know nothing of what occurred after I left that meet-
ing which was before he departed. Will you accept
my word for this?”
“I certainly do, more gladly than you dream.”
“Then let us talk no more about it,” she glanced
at her wrist-watch. “We can not loiter here much
longer. You have a story to tell me—how you came
to be present last night?”
I anticipated the question, but felt it impossible to
explain fully. "I believed in her, trusted her to a de-
gree beyond reason, yet some intuitive instinct left
me cautious.
“A mere accident put me in possession of certain
information that a coterie of South American con-
spirators in this country were receiving a large sum
of money from friends in London,” I explained
briefly. “This money was to be expended either in
the purchase of arms, or the killing of certain Chilean
officials, leading to an overthrow of government. My
knowledge was extremely vague—not sufficient, you
understand, to warrant my making any report to the
United States authorities. I had no proof beyond a
rather vague suspicion. In truth, about all the clew


142 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
I actually possessed was that these fellows met se-
cretly at a certain number on Gans Street. I was half
a day in learning that Gans Street was located in Jer-
sey City, and I went over there that evening merely
to seek blindly for further information.”
“You knew the names of those involved?”
“Only casually. I had heard of Alva; that the
agent bringing the boodle from England was known
as Horner, and that the actual money exchange was
to be made through Adolph Krantz, the banker.”
“You had never seen any of these men?”
“Only Krantz; I knew him by sight.”
“Then it was my meeting with Alva which led you
to the factory?”
“Yes. I had dropped into the saloon because it
was the only place to get out of the rain. Your ap-
pearance—the fact that you failed to belong in such
surroundings—aroused my interest. Then the sa-
loon-keeper lied about you, and when Alva arrived, it
was perfectly plain to be seen you two had never met
before. You went out together, and I could not help
but connect the whole affair together.”
“So you followed us?”
“As soon as I dare venture. The mud enabled me
to trail you down the alley, and good luck enabled me
to gain entrance to the factory without detection.
That is about the whole story.”
She sat motionless, with hands clasped in her lap,
and eyes fastened upon me. The depth of her inter-
est in my recital was very apparent.


THE DAGGER HAT-PIN 143
“Then you were not really a friend of that Horner?
You told me you were.”
I laughed, the absurdity of the recollection coming
suddenly home with full force.
“I had to account in some way for my presence;
that was the only inspiration which came to mind.
It happened that Horner had adopted me, and even
given me a rechristening, which I was compelled to
accept.”
“Harry Daly, the name you gave me?”
“Yes. He ran across me prowling about in the
dark, and flashed an electric light in my face. Before
I could move the fellow thought he recognized me, and
jumped at once to the conclusion that I was there on
the same job he was.”
“What Was that?”
“Robbery.”
“The—the English money which was to be paid
Over?”
“Of course—it looked easy; all cash, and no one
would dare go after it by law. It was a good frame-
up.”
“And Horner was in it—the agent? Why didn't
he help himself before?”
“How could he? It was a mere Letter of Credit
to be cashed in this country. He had to wait until it
was transmitted into currency. Besides, this fellow
was not the real Horner; he is an American thief,
who has been operating in London. The real Hor-
ner has been put out of the way.”


144 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“Good Heavens! I am beginning to see a ray of
light. Who then is the man?”
“George Harris—'Gentleman George they call
him.”
“And he actually mistook you for one of his kind?”
“He certainly did; extremely flattering, wasn't it?
I am supposed to be one of the fraternity, in good
standing—Harry Daly, whoever he may be. Unfor-
tunately I am not up in criminal biography.”
Her glance left my face, and swept the room; then
sought her watch again.
“I am so glad you told me all this,” she said grave-
ly. “It is going to be a wonderful help when I have
time to think. You are still willing to go where I
ask, without questioning?”
“I am even pleased to be asked—and trusted.”
“That is very nice. Are you armed?”
“I have a navy revolver, which I know to be
loaded.”
“Then we will go now. Perhaps it will be better
if you depart first, and wait for me outside at the
entrance.”
She arose when I did, turning slightly so that the
back of her broad-brimmed hat became visible for
the first time. There, bravely displayed, was the orna-
\mental dagger hilt I had believed hidden in my valise
at the hotel. The sight of it there vanished my last
suspicion.


CHAPTER xVII: PEROND's CAFE
THOUSAND questions were upon my lips as
I waited just outside the door, yet when she
appeared, wrapped from head to foot in a raincoat,
I asked nothing. The pressure of her hand on my
arm guided me across Broadway, into the quieter
streets beyond. It was a dark, cool night, cloudy but
without rain, and we walked rapidly, entering a re-
gion with which I was unfamiliar. Here was a
strange situation indeed, acting as escort to a woman
about whom I knew next to nothing; voluntarily ac-
companying her on a mission of peril, with no con-
ception of its nature, or the purpose she had in view.
I glanced aside at her profile revealed by the gleam
of a street lamp, but she appeared indifferent to my
presence, intent only upon whatever object she had in
mind. Somehow there was nothing I cared to say.
We were in the gloom of the deserted block be-
yond, when she spoke abruptly, startling me with the
inquiry.
“Do you know a Russian named Waldron?”
“No I have heard of him; that is, if you refer to
the agitator, the socialist. That was his wife, wasn’t
it, where you sent me this afternoon?”
She turned toward me in surprise.
145


146 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“How did you chance to learn that, pray?”
“I stopped on the corner, at the delicatessen store,
and made some inquiries.”
She laughed, one of her soft laughs, with an odd
suggestion of music in the tone.
“Why, really, you are developing wonderfully. I
must give you credit. Well, then it may interest you
to know that I am going now to meet Ivan Waldron.”
“Does he know it?”
“He does not. That is one reason why I have
brought you along. The place where I believe him
to be is not altogether safe for a woman without an
escort. Your mere presence will be sufficient protec-
tion, however; it is not necessary that you encounter
him.”
“You prefer I should not?”
“Why, as you are unknown to each other it would
make little difference. I do not insist either way.
By the way, what has become of your friend—Hor-
ner, alias Harris?” -
“Dropped completely out of sight,” I admitted,
“since early this morning. That chances to be why
I feel some interest in this man Waldron. It was a
note from him, left at Costigan's saloon, which caused
Harris to leave so hurriedly. He hasn’t been back
since.”
“Who brought the note?” she stopped suddenly,
and faced me in the dim lamp-light.
“A Jewish boy, known as ‘Sly Levy.’”
“It was from Waldron then, no doubt. I'm glad
you told me. The chances are they will both be


PEROND'S CAFE 147
where we are going, unless they have already quar-
reled over the spoils.”
“Over what spoils?”
“That bunch of easy money you spoke about.”
“But has that been paid over by Krantz? Who
has it?”
“The fellow who put a knife into Alva—whoever
he may be. The paper says he was plucked clean
when the police found the body.”
“And you don’t know who the assassin was?”
“No. Only it must have been one of certain men;
perhaps two were in the affair. At first I figured it
out to be Waldron alone; now I am not so sure that
Harris didn’t have some hand in it. How long was
it after we parted until he came to you?”
“Why, it must have been some time,” I answered,
now that this fact was recalled to memory. “I didn't
think anything of his absence, supposing he was talk-
ing with those other men out there, and waiting for
them to get away. It might have been forty or fifty
minutes.”
“Ample time, the distance the motor car was away.
And then he told you his story, the substance of which
you repeated to me to-night?”
“Yes; he seemed in no hurry to go. When we did
leave he made an appointment to meet in the morning
at Costigan's.”
“An appointment which he did not keep; and he
left no message?”
“NOne.”


148 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“You still believe he mistook you for this Harry
Daly, and that he told you things straight?”
“Yes,” I said positively, “I do; he told Costigan
who I was, or rather who he thought I was. What
possible object could he have in such a confession
unless he was convinced I was one of his kind?”
“I couldn't answer that. I do not know the crim-
inal mind, except that it seems to be strangely warped.
I think he did mistake you for Daly most likely, but
his plan was to draw you out, learn just how much
you knew, and then ditch you. By making you be-
lieve he was working with you, he expected to throw
you off the trail for the moment—long enough at
least for he and Waldron to make their get-away.
They undoubtedly had the affair all planned—the
money was passed over to Alva early in the evening.
I didn't know it then; I learned this later. Krantz
told me when we were alone on the way back to New
Work.”
“And so you think Harris lied to me?”
“No. I do not believe he lied exactly, because the
truth served his purpose better. He simply did not
tell you all; he left you holding the bag, as we used
to say in the country when I was a girl. It was the
simplest way out.”
, “And your theory is that one of those two killed
Alva P”
“Yes; my guess is that it was Harris, for I hardly
think Waldron has the nerve for that kind of a job.
But I believe the latter was close at hand—never ex-
pecting it would be a killing matter probably—and


PEROND'S CAFE 149
then took away the swag. Harris had to come back
to you in order to keep up appearances, and there
was too much money for him to carry around on his
person. It was given to Alva in a stout bag. Let's
move along; there is a policeman coming yonder.”
The officer passed us slowly, swinging his club, and
eyeing us curiously as he went by. I did not turn my
head, yet felt certain he stopped and looked back as
though wondering what our business could be in that
neighborhood. We turned down a still darker side
street before exchanging further speech.
“I believe I know what you are,” I said at last in
low tones close to her ear, “an agent of the Secret
Service.” \
“Oh, no; the honor you offer me is far too great.
I have not attained to any such official dignity.”
“I rather expected you to deny; but you offer me
no other explanation.”
“And so you decide to believe that?”
“It is the natural deduction, is it not? How else
could you know all you do regarding this case? Why
else should you assume such risks? And your speech
shows familiarity with criminal society.”
She laughed again, clearly amused by this last re-
mark. ar
“You mean I am slangy! Alas, how true! Con-
victed out of my own mouth. Very well, Mr. Severn,
I shall let you have it your own way. You deserve
reward; only, pray, never suggest this theory to any
one else. Let it remain our secret, will you?”
“Your mockery does not change my mind.”


PEROND's CAFK 151
“Merely be the attentive escort—but not too atten-
tive, please. There are small, curtained recesses
where meals are served to those preferring to be alone.
Secure one of these, if you can—a tip to the head-
waiter will probably suffice. Have you dined?”
“No. I was going to ask you.”
“You need not ask me—I am famished, and this
place is really famous for its meals.”
Perond's was really underground; at least you de-
scended a broad pair of steps to attain its entrance,
and the glass in windows and doors fronting the
street were heavily draped, preventing any view of
the interior from without. What was overhead could
not be determined in the darkness, my eyes merely
discerning the outlines of a tall building, without a
gleam of light showing anywhere from top to bottom.
The front of the restaurant, however, was brilliantly
lit, and a colored man in uniform promptly held open
the door as we began descending the stairs.
Within the vestibule a maid relieved us of outside
wraps, and thus unencumbered we advanced through
open doors directly into the main room. This was a
surprisingly large apartment, filled with tables of
various sizes and shapes, the majority occupied by
men and women, either eating or drinking. There
was noise and laughter, and a cloud of tobacco smoke
scented the air. Near the center was a cleared space
for dancing, but at that moment unoccupied, while
against the farther wall, on a rather high stage, two
cabaret singers were noisily entertaining the crowd.
To the right was a line of curtained booths, some


152 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
with curtains lowered for privacy, but the majority
thrown wide open, revealing the presence of parties
within, while to the left a great bar stretched entirely
across one side of the room, resplendent with mirrors,
and manned by half a dozen attendants in white
jackets. Altogether it was a stirring and attractive
scene, bearing to my mind no resemblance of any
preconceived notion of the underworld. I could have
easily imagined that we had entered rather the restau-
rant of an ultra-fashionable hotel the other side of
Broadway.
Nor did our entrance create the slightest interest,
beyond awakening the attention of the head-waiter,
who met us smilingly.
“A table for two, M'sieur?”
“A booth, please; have you one near the center?”
and I slipped a bill into his hand, which closed it
instantly out of sight.
“Ah, certainly; the very thing, M'sieur. I will
show you. François, the central booth for the gentle-
man. Ah, see, M'sieur—bien, tres bien!”
It was indeed a cozy spot, with the heavy curtains
held aside. A divan of soft plush across the end, a
table covered with snowy linen, and already glisten-
ing with silver and glass, in the center, and three ex-
ceedingly comfortable chairs. The master of cere-
monies snapped on the electric light, and stood bowing
and smiling before us on the green rug carpeting the
floor. It was indeed quite perfect—and this was actu-
ally a thieves' den, a mecca for slumming parties, a


PEROND's CAFE 153.
rendezvous of the underworld. The thought seemed
preposterous.
“It is very fine, M'sieur,” I said. “Quite to my
satisfaction. You might lower one of those curtains,
if you will. Yes, that is much better. Is François
our waiter?”
“Oui, M'sieur; you would be served? The table
de hoit, François. These dishes are ready—but,
M'sieur, we serve quickly whatever you wish.”
He spread his hands expressively, glanced swiftly
about to assure himself all was well, and backed out,
still politely bowing, leaving the attentive François
beside me, pad in hand. At my suggestion the lady
gave the order, using discretion, I thought, while I
supplemented with a bottle of wine, in spite of the
energetic negative conveyed to me across the table.
As the waiter departed I surveyed my companion,
realizing as never before how extremely attractive she
was. She must have read something of this in my
eyes, for her own smiled wistfully.
“What is it you were thinking about?”
“Perhaps I had better not tell.”
“Another secret? Well, then, answer this—what
do you think of Perond's?”
“Actually I am unable to realize where I am,” I
answered honestly. “The contrast from those dark
streets, suggestive of crime, to this brilliancy is alto-
gether too sudden. It has left me dazed; my mind
refuses to function.” - *
“It affected me that way the first visit. I could not
convince myself of the true nature of the place; it


154 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
seemed—well, altogether too respectable. I always
associated the underworld with roughness and pov-
erty, police surveillance, and all that. But look out
there; it is like a big hotel dining-room after the play.
Those women—some of them at least—are really ele-
gantly dressed, and in excellent taste, and there is no
more noise, no more coarseness, than I have witnessed
at the Waldorf. The men are not bad-looking, either,
do you think?” -
“Well, there are all grades here, now that I look
about; yet, as you say, the average is not bad. Prob-
ably they will grow louder later in the evening, when
they take the lid off.”
“I don't believe they ever do—that is entirely. Mr.
McLaughlin, the detective who came with us, said this
was really the most dangerous place in town from the
police viewpoint. Its very surface quiet made it a
special menace. Nothing was ever permitted to occur
here which would give the department any excuse for
a raid. If there was a fight, or even a murder, it was
hushed up instantly, and the victim hidden away, be-
fore even the patrolman on the block could hear about
it. He mentioned several cases; and said the waiters
were especially selected to take care of any rough
house.” -
“Perhaps that is what makes it popular with the
class they cater to.”
“Safe, you mean. Yes; he said they could spot any
criminal of reputation in the country at Perond's, if
they only waited long enough; that half the big jobs
in New York were plotted at these tables.” *


PEROND's CAFE 155
“I begin to comprehend,” I said jocularly, “why I
was received as a distinguished guest. The head-
waiter must have recognized me as an old pal—my
face is my fortune.”
“He may have mistaken you for Daly,” she ad-
mitted soberly, “but more likely it was your tip which
made him so attentive. You are some spender, Mr.
Severn.”
“That depends on who I am with; this is an un-
usual occasion.”
She did not smile, or look at me, but leaned slightly
forward, drawing back a fold of the curtain with one
hand, so as to gain a wider glimpse of the large room
without. A moment she remained motionless; then
turned her face sideways toward me.
“Waldron is already here,” she whispered warn-
ingly. “He is alone at that second table, against the
pillar. Step around this side and you can see; the
man with gray, bushy hair.”


CHAPTER XVIII: AGAIN THE MYSTERY
COULD not easily have mistaken the fellow; his
appearance was too emphatically that of the Rus-
sian Jew of a certain type to enable him to conceal
his birthright. His back was toward us, yet as he
occasionally cast his eyes about over the faces of
those around him, I had a glimpse of a beaked nose,
and a sallow, dull complexion, which seemed to blend
naturally into a scraggling beard of no perceptible
color. His hair though was iron-gray, apparently un-
cut for weeks, and thrust back from an unusually
high forehead, so as to give the man a ruffled, un-
kempt appearance far from pleasing. He was big all
over, strangely burly for a Jew, with broad shoulders
and large hands, thickly covered with hair.
I moved back around the table as François ap-
peared, and resumed my seat, keeping silent until the
waiter again vanished, and left us alone.
“And now that you have located the fellow,” I
asked curiously, “what do you propose doing—go
out and talk with him?”
She shook her head.
“Certainly not. I might send you, but have no in-
clination to take that risk myself. I am simply going
to remain here, and see what happens.”
“But what do you expect to happen? That he will
choke to death; I judge that is a real danger.”
156


AGAIN THE MYSTERY 157
“I have reason to believe he expects to meet some
one here,” she explained. “I do not know who; that
is one thing I desire to find out. From what you
have told me to-night I rather think now it may be
Harris.”
“To divvie up?”
“To talk it over, at least; they'd hardly bring the
stuff in here. Probably by this time that is safely
planted.”
François came back, and we devoted ourselves to
the meal, although I could observe her glancing con-
stantly through the opening in the curtains to make
sure of her man. He must have remained alone, and
busily engaged, for she contented herself with small
talk, and the waiter hovered about, anticipating our
every wish. At my urging, she drank a single glass
of wine, but no more. It was an excellent article, so
I felt impelled to finish the bottle. Finally François
disappeared with the remnants, while we awaited the
serving of dessert. From my seat I could see nothing
of the Russian.
“No one arrived yet?” I inquired. “The Jew still
there?”
“He remains alone eating. Ah! my guess was
right—isn’t that Harris, who has just come in?”
It was “Gentleman George” beyond the shadow of
a doubt, and I reached across the table to see better
and resting my hand on hers. She did not glance
about, or remove her fingers, as we sat there watch-
ing through the folds of the curtain. If she was con-
scious of my advance she gave no sign. Harris came


158 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
down the narrow aisle between the grouped tables,
heedless of who occupied them. He had evidently
located Waldron the moment of entering the room,
and with no other thought in his mind headed
straight toward where the latter sat. The Jew
glanced up, saw him approaching, and drew partially
back from the table, the knife he had been using still
gripped in his hand.
His posture was that of defense, of one who antici-
pates possible attack. Nor did Harris' expression and
manner render this improbable. The latter pushed
his way forward with angry strides, until he reached
the man he sought, leaning over the table to front
him, his face black with passion, his first words plainly
audible to us above the din of a jazz band.
“Say, where the hell have you been? What is this,
a double-cross, Waldron?”
“What you mean?” ejaculated the other. “By
Gott! it is rather you I should ask why you not tell
me the truth?”
“Tell you! What the devil have I got to tell you?
Don't get funny with me. You sent me a note this
morning, didn't you?”
“Sure I did.”
“Well, then, why didn't you meet me? Damn it,
I’ve been hunting you all day long. What's the idea?
Come, blurt it out, before I wring your damn Jew
neck.”
Waldron spread his hands, and lifted his shoulders
in an expression more eloquent than words.
“What a man! You cuss me, but not wait to hear


AGAIN THE MYSTERY 159
why this all was so. You sit down, and I tell you.
Then maybe you tell me something also.”
Harris stared at him, then sank into the vacant
chair opposite, still scowling angrily across the table.
A waiter paused at his elbow expectantly, and, in
response to something said, the thief jerked out a
surly answer.
“No, I don’t want anything to eat. Bring me some
whisky—a half pint—with a little water. Yes, that's
all; now get out of here.”
At this moment François returned with our final
course, obliging us to appear indifferent to the quarrel
raging beyond the curtains. Both men must have
lowered their voices, for our ears caught nothing of
what was said. It seemed to me the waiter was un-
usually slow in rearranging the table.
“There that will do, François,” I broke out, at last,
impatiently. “We will want nothing else at present.
When I need you again I will ring. That is the bell,
I presume.”
“Oui, M'sieur.”
“All right; then leave us alone for awhile.”
Neither one of us touched a thing, the coffee grow-
ing cold in the cups, as we endeavored to distinguish
what was going on at that second table out in the
main dining-room. I came around beside her, to
where I could peer out also beneath the curtain fold,
and thus gain glimpses of the two men. They were
talking earnestly, but had lowered their voices, until
they were nearly inaudible amid the din of the place.
Just beyond a dozen couples were dancing; the waiter


160 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
had brought Harris' whisky, and he paused long
enough in his conversation to gulp down two glasses
of the stuff, pushing the bottle over toward Waldron,
who merely shook his head, and continued to talk
excitedly. The anger and threat had gone out of
both voices; they seemed to be explaining and argu-
ing together, but only occasionally could we weave
together words into an understandable sentence; these
came to us detached, unrelated, as the surrounding
noise ceased suddenly, or the music came to a pause.
“You didn’t get it! Then who the hell did? You
don't even know that? By God! you are a bright
one! Me, I should say no; why I never knew the
old man had even slipped him the dough. That damn
girl rode down with him. Of course I do; I saw
them go out together; that's why I thought I was
playing safe to keep away. Where was you? Oh,
you was, hey! Somebody has played us for suckers.
If you had kept your damn mouth shut we'd a-had it
easy.”
Waldron broke in, stung by this last taunt into ele-
vating his voice.
“What you mean, I keep my mouth shut? So help
me, Moses, I tell nobody.”
“The hell you didn't. You blabbed the whole thing
to Daly. He told me so himself. That's what I was
doing last night, bluffing him out.”
“I tell Daly? Where you git that stuff. I ain't
seen Daly for three year. Was he in this deal? Why
you not tell me of Daly before?”


AGAIN THE MYSTERY 161
“Tell you! Good God, you got him in. I never
knew it until he told me.”
A waiter brushed past him, bearing a tray, striking
against one shoulder as he passed. Harris glanced
up with a snarling oath, and, before I realized the
danger, his eyes must have caught a glimpse of me
beneath the draped curtain. Instantly the fellow was
on his feet, all else forgotten in a swift wave of
passion.
“By God, Waldron! There is the guy now!” he
burst forth. “He’s hiding in that booth; I saw him.
Come on, and we'll have the stiff cough up yet!”
I drew back swiftly, pushing the girl behind me.
There was no place in which to hide, no chance for
escape. Perhaps I could explain, but, if not, then
I must fight. I had no time but for this one thought,
before the two came plunging through the opening
and faced us, the heavy curtains dropping behind
them and shutting out all view beyond. Harris, in-
flamed by drink, glared about as though doubting the
evidence of his own eyes, but his expression was that
of savage hatred.
“Hell, if they ain't both of 'em here! Say, this is
rich. So you two are in cahoots, hey? Thought
you’d play me for a damn fool, did you, Daly? Well,
I'll show you what you're up against—you and yer
girl. Come now, where's that boodle?”
“I know nothing about it, Harris.”
“You’re a liar. This dame went away with Alva
in his car. Don't tell that stuff to me. I saw her go
out with him. You cough up, both of you, and be
/


162 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
damn quick about it, or you'll never get out of here
without a hole through you. You think you can
double-cross me; I'll show you a trick of my own!”
He was reaching for his gun. It must have caught
in his pocket, though I wasted no time. It was his
life or mine, and I gripped the empty wine bottle on
the table and smashed a vicious blow at his head. He
went down like a log, his body half projecting through
the curtains, while I wheeled about barely in time to
meet the mad bull rush of Waldron. The Russian
could not have been armed, for he came at me with
bare hands, his grip like that of a bear. For an
instant he had me throttled, scarcely able to breathe,
my hands pinned helplessly in the grasp of his arms.
But brute strength was all he possessed, brute
strength and ferocity. The bottle was crushed out of
my fingers, yet I wriggled partially free, and got one
hand twisted into his whiskers, jerking his head back,
and side-wise, until the strained neck threatened to
crack, and he had to release his grip to protect him-
self. It was all over in a minute, but hot while it
lasted; I know we struck against the girl, throwing
her to her knees; I know the fellow stumbled over
Harris' legs, giving me a chance to drive home one
fist square into his face. I heard him rip out a He-
brew oath, and saw blood staining his lips. I tried to
break away from him, but it was no use; yet the
effort opened his guard for a swift uppercut, and I
let him have it straight to the chin. He crashed back
across the table, and hung there dangling, arms out-
spread and head in a broken dish. Before I could


164 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
escort, we were gazed at curiously, but no demonstra-
tion followed. -
A group of waiters stood before the outer door,
evidently collected there to prevent any alarm from
reaching the outside. To the signal of François these
stepped aside, permitting us to pass through into the
vestibule. Jules accompanied us, speaking bruskly to
the maid, who was peering at the scene within.
“Ze wraps, please. Ah, you hav’ ze checks, M'sieur.
Hurry, Hortense.”
I slipped a coin into the palm of each, assisted my
companion into her coat, and then hastily struggled
into my own. She was pale, but her eyes met my
own bravely, and her hand touched my arm as we
went up the steps. Above all remained quiet and
dark.
“What next?” I asked.
“I believe there are taxis around the corner; they
have a stand there.”
“Good; I would prefer riding to walking myself.
Where do you wish to be taken?”
“Back to the hotel, please.”
In the semi-darkness of the cab I felt her hand
touch mine gently, as though half afraid.
“You—you are unhurt, Mr. Severn?”
“So far as I know. Still winded a little, for I
haven’t had such a shake-up for years; that was really
some go while it lasted.”
“Oh, I was so frightened—so sorry to have
brought you there. It was all my fault. The Rus-
sian had a knife.”
*


AGAIN THE MYSTERY 165.
“Yes, I know; I caught a glimmer of it, but he
went down and out for the count before it could be
used. There is nothing to worry over now.”
“They did not get the money?”
“No, that is clear enough. Somebody got the bulge
on them, and they are very properly sore. What do
you think?”
“I don't think; my whole theory has gone.”
“Harris swears you left with Alva.”
“Harris knows nothing about it; you must believe
me.”
“I intend to—certainly as against Harris.”
She may not have been altogether pleased with my
answer, for she said no more until we drew up at the
hotel entrance. She waited while I settled with the
chauffeur, and we crossed the wide pavement to-
gether.
“It may be best for you not to come in; one never
knows.”
“You are actually stopping here, then?”
“Temporarily, yes; but it will be useless for you to:
search the register.”
“I am aware of that; I have no guide. This is not
a final parting, I hope?”
“Perhaps so, perhaps not. You do not wholly
trust me. Some day I mean you shall. Good-night.”
I felt her hand in mine, just for a moment; then
the doors opened and closed, leaving me alone.


THE PROOF OF MURDER 167
whose very identity was shrouded in mystery. I pos-
sessed no knowledge as to her name, her character,
her life. To be sure she bore about with her every
evidence of birth, education, position, yet I had met
her under circumstances of the gravest suspicion. To
all appearances she was actively engaged in con-
spiracy against the government of Chile, in a crime
against human life. She was unquestionably the au-
thorized agent of a gang of revolutionary plotters—
I had witnessed their reception of her as one of their
own, and could not doubt the evidence of my own
eyes. She had borne them instructions, and stood in
their midst, in secret conclave, speaking as one having
authority. More than that even, she had refused to
deny this connection, to reveal her name, or acknowl-
edge any other purpose. She had used me to further
her ends, whatever they might be, preying upon my
personal interest in her, and yet refusing to lift a
single fold of this curtain of mystery.
What could it mean, but that she was secretly
ashamed to permit of my full understanding? Yet
what could she be concealing which I did not already
know? The thought of the stolen money, the murder
of Alva, recurred to me; the invitation I had over-
heard for her to accompany him on his fatal trip, and
her acceptance; the positive assertion of Harris that
she had done so; her confessed knowledge that the
money had actually been given into the possession of
the Chilean captain; the nature of the weapon with
which he had been killed; her remaining in New York
instead of returning to Washington. I could not blot


THE PROOF OF MURDER 171
the room clerk would never remember who occupied
that particular apartment. And who else would have
any reason to thus search through my things, and ab-
stract this important evidence of crime?
Yet how did she know I had it? How did she
even suspect I was the first to discover the dead body,
and bear away with me the tell-tale weapon with
which Alva had been murdered? I had no means of
knowing how—only she alone had special reason to
regain possession of that knife. It meant nothing to
any one else; it was no damning evidence of guilt, no
convincing proof. But against her it hung a terrible
menace, a crushing indictment. And she had even dared
later to flaunt it in my very face, to show it to me
in her possession, just as though it had never passed
out of her hands! The situation was inconceivable;
beyond my power to analyze. Here was revealed a
depth of duplicity, a criminal audacity, not to be ex-
pressed in words; this soft spoken girl, this woman
to whom I knew I had given my heart, stood revealed
now in all her hideousness—a murderess, a thief, a
scheming criminal, coolly concealing the trail of her
crime, and using her very charms of face and manner
to conceal from me her true nature.
- Perhaps she would see me again—perhaps! The
lie was yet warm upon her lips. She had gone away
laughing at the simpleton who had believed her, the
dupe who had so easily been deceived by her smiles.
The chances were she had disappeared already, van-
ished, left the city, assured that no evidence now re-
mained behind to ever connect her with this terrible


172 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
affair. She cared nothing for me—I had been a mere
tool, pliant in her hand—I remained merely in her
memory as something to laugh about, another victim,
a blind, groping fool, with whom she had played to
her heart's desire.
I sat with my head in my hands staring at the muti-
lated bag, racked with anger and misery. I had been
easy, a mark of derision and ridicule; a mere screen
for her to hide behind, while her accomplice, if she
had one, escaped with the spoils. Then the reaction
came; the thought that perhaps I had not read the
story wholly aright; the faint hope that it might not
prove exactly as I had pictured in my first wild burst
of passion. She stood before me again in vision with
smiling lips, and earnest, truthful eyes. These latter
seemed to plead, to ask me if I could really believe
her guilty of so foul a deed. My God! I could not
answer! The words would not form themselves upon
my lips. I could not look, even in memory, into those
clear depths, and insist that she had done this horrible
thing. It was too infamous, too unthinkable. Why,
if she was guilty, should she have remained in New
York? Why should she have sought me out, or lis-
tened so intently to the quarrel of those two men at
Perond's? What could she possibly gain by thus
overhearing the tale of their failure, if she already
knew who was the murderer of Alva, and what had
become of the spoils? -
I could ask these questions, but not one was answer-
able. They merely mocked me with their emptiness.
She had said that Krantz had accompanied her across


THE PROOF OF MURDER 173
to New York. Well, that statement was safe enough,
for Krantz would never tell. Even if I sought him,
he would lie, be bound to lie. He dare do nothing
else, for any confession would only involve him in
the meshes of this Chilean plot, possibly in the very
murder itself. No, there was no hope of obtaining
light through any interview with Adolph Krantz.
Was there then any way in which I could find her?
I would tell her the whole story, just exactly as I
knew it—the discovery of the knife, its concealment,
its sudden disappearance, and its confronting me once
again in her possession. I would make her explain;
would insist on knowing everything. There must be
some way; to remain thus in ignorance and doubt,
tortured by every phantom of imagination, would
drive me mad.
Then, shrill and insistent, the telephone rang.


CHAPTER XX: IN THE JAWS OF A TRAP
Y heart was beating like a trip-hammer as I
took down the receiver. Who could be calling
me at this hour? Who except she alone in this city
knew my name and hotel?
“Hullo.”
The exchange operator answered.
“Just a moment, please. G 145? Here you are,
sir, this is your party.”
A man's voice spoke huskily.
“This you, Daly?”
“Yes,” hastily, instantly aware of who was on the
other end of the wire, yet feeling it best to dissemble
until I learned the purpose.
“Who is speaking?”
“The fellow you biffed with a bottle to-night. No,
I ain’t got no hard feelings. What's the use; it was
a fair fight enough. Besides I got something else to
think about than a cracked dome. Say, I got some
dope on how that job was did, an’ maybe could tell
you something else of interest.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got to talk with you privately—that's what. It's
a matter for the girl as well as yerself. I’m playing
square as long as you do the right thing, but I know
who the dame is, an am liable to squeal if I get a
raw deal; that's putting it straight, Harry.”
-- - - - - -
174


176 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
to be sure, in all probability, he was only feeling
about in the dark, hoping in this way to learn some-
thing of value, yet it might be that he had accidentally
uncovered the girl's identity, and that alone was in-
ducement enough to urge me to take the risk. If he
actually knew who she was, he was the kind that
might become ugly, and, however much I suspicioned
her in my own mind, I had no desire to leave her un-
defended at his mercy. Guilty or not guilty, my in-
clination was to protect her to the last. Besides I was
eager to obtain the information he claimed to possess;
indeed, all progress on the case was blocked until I
did obtain it. As to his boast that he knew where the
stolen money was concealed, I took little stock in that.
Doubtless he merely threw that in for good measure.
But the other looked reasonable enough; she had con-
fessed being at Perond's before; Pierre was fully as
likely to recall her to memory as he was to remember
Daly, and Harris could never have made so shrewd a
guess, unless he had really been told the facts. An-
other thing gave me courage to go to Costigan's. I
was still accepted by these people as Harry Daly,
crook. I would undoubtedly be so received, so
treated. Under these circumstances there could be no
personal danger; I held the whip-hand, the advantage
—Harris was only endeavoring to see what he could
get out of me; he had abandoned force to resort to
diplomacy.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll run over there; if you
want to play fair, I'll meet you half way.”
“Oh, I'm on the square, old man, and I’ve got some


IN THE JAWS OF A TRAP 177
good dope,” he insisted. “I’ll blow it when you show
up.”
I returned , the receiver to the hook, uncertain
whether or not I had decided rightly, yet determined
to carry out the experiment. Above all else I wanted
to learn who Marie Gessler was. Nothing else mat-
tered so much, for on this discovery all else hinged.
If Harris really knew the girl, the personal risk I ran
in visiting Costigan's place at his invitation was of
Small importance. If violence, or treachery, was in-
tended, I would be found prepared, and well able to
defend myself. However, I really anticipated nothing
of the sort. -
The neighborhood into which I was venturing in-
duced me to take a taxi, and, within ten minutes, I
was deposited at the door of the saloon. The place
was evidently doing a thriving business, late as the
hour was, and the street outside was thronged. Night
life here was at full swing; the entire block was
mostly composed of saloons, and cheap restaurants,
and the tinkling of pianos together with the discordant
notes of numerous phonographs, made a continuous
din. I saw one policeman strolling past, indifferent
to the noise and confusion, and a belated beer wagon
was being unloaded at the curb. I pressed open the
swinging door, and stepped into the brilliantly lighted
bar-room. The bar was lined with men, while at the
tables others sat drinking, with occasionally a woman
among them. Over all hovered a cloud of smoke,
and the air reeked with the smell of liquor.
Costigan was behind the bar, but, at sight of me,


178 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
rounded the end, and shook hands cordially, remov-
ing his apron, and slipping into a coat, in token that
he had changed his occupation.
“Better call Charlie,” he said to a man beside him,
“for I'll be off for an hour or so; doin' some business
to-night.”
“Certainly looks prosperous,” I replied, for the last
remark had been addressed to me. “And they are
still coming.” -
“Ah, they'll keep blowin' in till three or four
o'clock; night's our harvest time down here. You
came to see George?”
“Yes; he telephoned me.”
“Said he was goin’ to. He's waitin' in the office
there. I'll go along with you.”
He pushed a passage through the crowd, his
breadth of body affording me ample room in which
to follow without being obstructed, and opened the
closed door with a pass-key. To a wave of his big
hand I passed confidently past him, and entered. The
next instant he had pressed me forward, came in also,
and closed the door; the sharp click of the lock
sounded like the report of a pistol. One startled
glance at the interior told me I was trapped, and the
swift instinct of defense led me to step aside, so that
I should have my back to the wall. Harris sat in the
swivel chair, with feet elevated on the desk, sardoni-
cally grinning at me over a half chewed cigar tilted
between his teeth. A white rag was bound round his
head, through which a few drops of blood had oozed,
leaving a dark stain. Leaning against the wall op-


IN THE JAWS OF A TRAP 179
posite was Waldron, one eye half closed, and his lip
split, giving to his face a look of savage brutality,
rendered peculiarly sinister by a grim effort to smile.
Costigan remained motionless, with back against the
door, as though thus barring all possibility of escape.
I had walked into their trap, and the jaws had closed.
For a minute the silence was intense, ominous. I
could hear the faint click of glasses without, a muffled
hum of voices, and the shuffling of feet, but within it
scarcely seemed that any one of us breathed. The
grin on Harris' face maddened me.
“Well,” I said coldly, “it was a stall, was it? What
is the idea?”
He laughed, without changing his attitude.
“This happens to be our turn to play, Daly,” he
returned, apparently well satisfied with his smartness,
“and I must say you are certainly some sucker; you,
swallowed hook, sinker and all.”
“Then you have nothing to tell me?”
“Oh, yes, I have; I’ve got a hell of a lot to tell you.
But first of all you are going to tell me a few things.
Push back your right sleeve to the elbow, shirt and
all.”
“What’s that for P”
“Never you mind what it's for; you do what I say,
if you know what is best for yourself.”
I looked at the faces of the others, but they were
hard as flint. My hesitancy caused Harris to lower
his feet, and sit up angrily.
“Push up that sleeve, you, or I'll have Waldron
do it for you. We've got you foul, you fool!”
*


180 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“If Waldron touches me,” I said firmly, “he'll have
the surprise of his life, and that goes for all of you.
I may have been a fool for ever coming here, but
I am no kid to be made a monkey of. There is going
to be some fracas if you start anything rough. How-
ever I'll oblige you now.”
I stripped back my sleeve, exposing my right fore-
arm, yet never removing my eyes from their faces.
What their purpose might be I could not guess, but
felt prepared for any emergency of action. Harris
and Costigan bent forward, intent on the operation,
but Waldron never shifted his position. Harris
slapped a hand on the desk, and gave utterance to an
oath.
“By God, Dan, we're right! This bird's not Daly!”
“Not in a thousand years he ain’t. He's sure a
dead-ringer, though. Well, maybe the guy will talk,
now we got his number.”
Harris straightened up, the same hateful grin still
exposing his teeth. -
“We’ve got your number this time, son,” he an-
nounced. “Harry Daly has a tattooed anchor on his
right arm. I didn’t know it, but Dan did. I’ll tell
you what made us wise. In the shindig over at
Perond's to-night, a card-case was jarred loose from
your pocket. Pierre picked it up and showed it to
me; there was only one kind of card inside, and that
wasn't Daly by a damn sight. I told Dan about it,
and he was for getting a squint at that right arm.
Said for me to call you up at the number you gave
me, believing that if I threw in con enough you'd


IN THE JAWS OF A TRAP 181
come over here. Well, I did—and I put it on thick;
but when I asked for ‘G 145 the operator there
named yer, and it was the same name what was on
them cards. So now we know yer’re a dirty liar and
spy, Mister Philip Severn.”
“You called me Daly yourself, Harris,” I said
quietly, realizing the game was up, but not yet sure
of their intentions. “I merely let it go.”
“Sure: but what was the game? You ain't no
fly-cop?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“Then you was after the dough. That's what I
thought; you and the girl are in cahoots. Well, what
did you do with it?”
I shook my head, but this only angered Costigan.
“Ah, stow that,” he broke in roughly, “we know
you never got it, but she did. There ain’t no other
way it could have been done. You was back there
gassin’ with Harris, keeping him out of the way like-
ly; but the dame left with Alva. George here saw
her go out with him. Then the next morning the guy
was found dead, his pockets rifled, and the bag of
cash gone. How was he croaked—do you know?
Punctured from behind with some sorter sharp in-
strument, no bigger than a hat-pin. It looked like a
woman’s job, but she got away clean. And what
then? The next night she turns up with you over at
Perond's, blowing in the coin, and the two of yer
havin a hell of a time. That proves yer were to-
gether, don’t it?”
“We’re not going to blow this to the police,” broke


182 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
in Harris, as Dan paused for breath. “That ain’t
the idea at all. But we want a share of that dough.
By God, there's enough for all of us, split four ways.
You come across, and there won't be no more
trouble.”
“But suppose I don't? Suppose I tell you I haven’t
the slightest idea where that money is, or who got it?
What then?”
Harris' grin was more malicious and hateful than
ever, but he waited and deliberately lit his stump of a
cigar.
“What then?” he echoed finally. “Well, in the first
place, we’ve got you, haven’t we? Say, you are liable
to think the ‘third degree is only an angels' chorus
after we get busy. You'll squeal, believe me, before
you ever get out of our hands. See here, Severn, I
ain't got any direct proof that'll put you in the chair
at Sing-Sing; that's true enough, but, unless the two
of you cough up liberal, I'll turn something over to
the police of this town what will give you a term in
the jug, as accessory, and fix that fly dame of yours
for all time.”
“You are bluffing; you have no such proof.”
“Oh, haven't I? Look here, you fool; do you
know where I got that?”
He whipped something from out the concealment
of an inner coat pocket, and flung it fully revealed
onto the desk—an ornamental dagger, glittering in
the light, which I as instantly recognized. He read
the surprise in my face.
“Ever see that baby weapon before?”


IN THE JAWS OF A TRAP 183
“Yes,” and I felt a sudden relief at the discovery.
“You slashed open my valise, and found it.”
“Exactly; that's what I did,” evidently proud of
himself. “I cut my eye-teeth a long while ago. I
didn't cotton to all your story out there in that fac-
tory. Of course at that time I thought you was Daly,
all right, but after I heard of Alva's murder I got it
into my nut that maybe you was double-crossing me.
That's what set me to look through your baggage.
It was an easy enough trick. I just hung around
until you went out, and then marched up and asked
for the key. You’d given me the room number, you
know; but I had to slash the grip to get into it. Just
as soon as I got eyes on this pretty plaything I knew
I’d got the sticker that put Alva out of business—an’
I knew where it come from.”
“Where?”
“Oh, hell! do you think I ain't got any eyes? That
skirt wore it in her hat when she and Alva went out
together.” -
“Oh, did she? This same pin, was it? Say, Har-
ris, I wish I could be as bright as you think you are.
And did you happen to observe also that the lady's
hat was held in place by exactly the same pin to-night
when she was in Perond’s? Well, it was; now how
could it be in your pocket and in her hat at the same
time?”


THE BACK ROOM AT COSTIGAN’S 185
The Russian growled something in his beard, the
first noise he had made; doubtless it pained him to
open his mouth.
“It’s the truth, Harris,” I insisted. “You have been
barking up the wrong tree.”
“That's easy,” he sneered. “She bought herself
another. That proves nothing, except that she is
smart enough to play safe. . Neither one of you can
get away on that sort of dope.”
“Perhaps not; but it clears her of the murder
charge.”
“Oh, does it? That remains to be seen. We know
who she is, and that is more than you do. Oh, hell,
I got onto that over the wire; the only thing that
interested you into coming here was to learn who the
dame really was. That's part of her play, as I figure
it, Severn. She won’t give herself away, but is just
using you. When she's good and ready she means
to fade, an’ she'll take the dough along with her.
You will have sold out for a few cheap kisses, an’
that's all.” He laughed coarsely. “She is stringing
you for a fool. Come now, wake up, before it is too
late, an’ let's all get a hand in the pot; what’re yer
say?”
“You still think I am that kind? One of your
class?” I questioned, thoroughly angered by his sneer-
ing speech. -
“One of my class? I should say not; you are the
rawest kind of a mutt, but so far you’ve been in luck
—that's all. Now your luck has changed, and yer up
against it. The sooner you get that into your nut the


186 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
better. We're giving you a chance to come out whole,
with a fair bit of the coin. It's up to you to decide.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Blow her; tell us all you know. We'll play the
game for you, and divide square.”
“You will let me out of here?”
“Sure, once you give us the right steer; we haven’t
any desire to bump you.”
“And if I refuse?”
He laughed contemptuously.
“You’re not going to; you’ve got too damn much
sense. But just to satisfy your curiosity I’ll tell you.
We talked it over before you got here, and here's the
program. We’ve got the girl spotted; we can lay our
hands on her in an hour; and, believe me, we've got
the goods on the young lady. Your hat-pin alibi is
altogether too thin; it won’t work. Here's the sticker
that did the business, and I found it right where you
had hidden it away. I can find three men—they are
keeping out of sight, but I can stir them up—who'll
swear that she went away alone with Alva from that
factory over there; that he had the bag with him,
and that the two got into the auto together. That
makes one hell of a straight case, don’t it?”
“The way you put it—yes.”
He leaned forward to make his point more em-
phatic. -
“It’s strong enough to convince any jury; insanity
wouldn't even get her out of a scrape like that.
There ain't no defense that'll ever clear the dame,
once these facts get to the police.”


188 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
fellows were criminals, suspicious and unscrupulous;
they would only believe what I could prove. If they
caught me in a deliberate lie, as they probably would,
that would instantly end everything. I might then
just as well fight it out with them now as later. The
result would be exactly the same, and I could have
the satisfaction of playing the part of a man. I set
my teeth, ready for what I felt sure was coming.
“You fellows have sized me up wrong,” I said
quietly, but firmly. “I am not the kind to squeal be-
cause of a threat. You'll find I’ll protect the lady,
but I'll do it in my own way—not yours. The honest
truth is, I haven't anything to tell. You won't be-
lieve that, but it is so. I know less than you claim to
know. I have no knowledge of where the money is,
or who got it. I do not know who killed Alva; even
now I haven’t any suspicions worth mentioning. But
I will say this plainly—I do not believe this girl did
it, or that she had any hand in the robbery. I am
going to stay with her till hell freezes over, if that is
what you want to know. Your proof don't convince
me; but right now I can't answer it. I'm simply with
her on general principles. I don’t know her name,
where she is to be found, or how she got mixed up in
this affair. But that doesn’t make any difference. I
am on her side, and I am going to fight you as long
as I can stand on my feet. That's my answer, Har-
ris, and it is all I’ve got to give you.”
“You damned cur! we'll show you something!”
“Perhaps you will; you are three to one, and on
your own dung-hill. But the man who touches me


190 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
in any conceivable way; hate seemed to endow me
with supernatural strength, and a desire to kill swept
me with passion. All before me was blood-red, amid
which swam their faces, and I went straight for them
like a wild beast. Then, suddenly, from behind, a
blow descended on my head, crushing me to the floor.
I went stumbling down as though struck with a pole-
ax, and lay motionless. For the instant I must have
retained a measure of consciousness. I knew where
I was; I even attempted vainly to regain use of my
limbs, and I heard Harris swear in disgust.
“What the hell did you hit him like that for, you
idiot!” he yelped. “We don’t want to kill the guy;
he's worth more to us alive. Here you, Waldron, lift
up his head!”
Then all knowledge left me, and I went out into
the dark.


CHAPTER XXII: A VENTURE OF PERIL
MUST have remained unconscious for an hour or
more. I never really knew how long, for my
watch had disappeared, yet it was still night when I
again painfully opened my eyes and endeavored to
perceive my surroundings. At first all was a blank;
not that I failed to see and note certain things in my
immediate neighborhood, but memory deserted me.
I could not recall clearly what had occurred. Then it
all came back with a flash of revelation—the three
men facing me in Costigan's little office; Harris'
threat, and the fierce fight which had followed my
words of defiance. Memory of the blow which ended
the struggle caused me to lift a hand to my head;
the scalp was bruised and broken, the hair matted
with clotted blood, yet I could not believe the injury
was a serious one. My body ached, as though I might
have been savagely kicked after I fell, and my throat
was raw from the pressure of Costigan's knuckles,
yet no bones seemed broken, and, with an effort, I
could use my limbs. Satisfied on this point, and as-
sured that I was alone, I braced myself on one arm,
and, in a sitting posture, endeavored to survey my
surroundings.
My head reeled dizzily, and was intensely sore to
the touch, yet the brain seemed to clear as I became
191


192 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
active, readily responding to the sense of sight. I
was resting on the floor of a bare room of ordinary
size, containing no vestige of furniture. What ap-
peared to be a bed-spread, originally white, had been
thrown over me, and my head had reposed on an old
coat, rolled up, for a pillow. The place was cold,
with that indescribable chill peculiar to unused apart-
ments, and through the one window, which was un-
shaded by a curtain, poured the direct light of an
almost full moon. In this silvery light every bit of
that interior stood revealed in its hideous bareness,
the roughly finished walls, with patches of plaster
scaled off, the dirty floor, the single door and window,
the rags amid which I rested. It was a hopeless
Scene.
I staggered to my feet, reeling a moment like a
drunken man, and then finally found my way along
the side wall to the window. My strength increased
as I advanced, and courage was born with it—I was
not dead; I might baffle those villains yet. Beyond
doubt they had brought me here, and left me lying
there, to live or die alone. They must have felt that
I was safe enough in this place; that, even if I re-
gained consciousness, no escape was possible, for they
had left no guard. A glance without revealed the
reason for such confidence. I was four stories up, a
sheer brick wall below, and, at the bottom, a con-
crete walk. There was nothing between to cling to
unless it might be the narrow coping of stone just
beneath the window sill. I stared at this, almost hope-
fully, for an instant; then turned my eyes away with


194 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
possessed all the information of which Harris had
boasted, yet there must be some solid foundation for
their persistent efforts. That they suspected Marie
Gessler of being implicated in both murder and rob-
bery was clearly evident; indeed, they not only sus-
pected, but were convinced that she had done the deed.
I was secretly obliged to admit that they had some
reason to so believe; that they even possessed proof
which would probably convict her in court of the
crime. This gave them a terrible advantage over the
girl, once they had her bodily in their possession.
Guilty or not guilty, she could not establish her inno-
cence; under torture and threat, such as they would
doubtless use in their money lust, there was no know-
ing what might happen. Alone, helpless in the grasp
of these unscrupulous crooks, her fate might be death,
disgrace. Certainly it would be foul insult, and, if
she failed to yield, the desire for revenge might even
drive those cowards to a secret denouncement of her
to the police. This, however, would be their last re-
sort; they would exhaust all other efforts first. And
no one else knew of her danger; no one else was in
position to aid her; she must face this gang absolutely
alone unless I could effect an escape. It was not
merely my own life at stake; hers was also in the
balance.
And the time in which to act was short. The fel-
lows might already have her in their power, and, if
I waited until daylight to attempt action, the danger
of discovery would only be increased. Darkness, and
the lateness of the hour, alone gave the slightest op-


A VENTURE OF PERIL 195
portunity; if I escaped at all, it must be accomplished
before my jailers returned, before they dreamed that
I had aroused from unconsciousness, or had strength
enough to make the attempt. Yet what possible way
suggested itself? I felt in my pockets; they were
utterly empty, except for a single overlooked bill.
There was no means of egress other than the window,
and that seemed hopeless. Yet in desperation I
crossed over once more, and again looked out. The
prospect appeared wildly impossible as ever, but I
could not divorce my eyes, or thought, from that nar-
row stone coping. Could I—dare I—attempt to cling
to that slight ledge in my stocking feet, even for the
one or two steps necessary to reach the next window?
The very conception of such a feat made my head
reel giddily and my stomach rise in protest. Good
God! it could never be done! I would fall head-long;
be dashed to death instantly on the solid cement be-
low; a single step would leave me clutching wildly
for support. Besides, even if I made it by some
miracle, what if that other window should be closed
and locked? How could I ever move backward to
regain safety? I shuddered at the picture, and cov-
ered my eyes with my hands.
Yet wait: there was a way, dangerous enough to
be sure, yet possible if I possessed the necessary nerve.)
I uncovered my eyes, and looked out again, inspired,
by the new thought. There were opened blinds at
each window; they would help some as grasping spots
for the hands. The one within reach appeared solid
enough, firmly anchored to the casement, and secured


196 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
to the brick wall by means of an iron hook. Between
the two the space to be traversed was not wide; a
single stride on the ground beneath would bridge the
distance. If I had something to cling to above—any-
thing that would keep me upright—I might hold my
footing on the narrow stone and make the passage
slowly. It was a daring, deadly venture, but possible.
But what could I hope to utilize as a support? The
bare room offered but a single suggestion—the dirty
coverlet which had been thrown over me. This was
ragged but strong, and I tested it with both hands and
feet to assure myself. Torn apart from corner to
corner, and twisted into the form of a rope, it ought
to safely sustain my entire weight in case a foot
slipped. I started to tear with my teeth, and thus
succeeded in ripping the thing from end to end. It
was scarcely long enough for the purpose, which com-
pelled me to make the noose correspondingly small.
However, with this improvised lasso gripped in my
right hand, I took position astride the sill of the win-
dow, in an endeavor to project the loosened end over
some protuberance of the blind beyond. By holding
tight to the frame with my left hand, the right was
left free, and I was enabled to lean out far enough
to obtain a clear toss. There was little the noose
could catch on, and I must have tried it vainly a half
dozen times before I conceived the idea of permitting
the outer end to slide down the face of the wall, rather
than chancing it to a more direct throw forward.
This experiment resulted in nothing for some time;
the noose reaching its objective all right, but finding


A VENTURE OF PERIL 197
nothing to cling to, and so sliding along until it hung
dangling below. The effort, however, made no noise,
and I kept at it persistently, realizing that here was
my only chance. The moon sank below the roof of a
distant house, but its silver light still played upon the
wall, and gave me a clear view.
Continued failure left me listless and discouraged.
I lost hope, yet kept at it, and finally, to my surprise,
the ring of the cloth settled over an iron projection
of the hinge, and clung there, extending straight
across from window to window. I hardly dared
breathe as I drew the thing taut and tested the firm-
ness with which it was held at the other end. The
noose closed down tightly about the iron staple, and
resisted every effort at release. To all seeming it
was as safely anchored as though I had placed it there
by hand. Somehow the very knowledge that this had
been accomplished, that the way was now open,
brought with it a renewal of the feeling of horror
with which I had first contemplated the possibility of
such an accomplishment. Would I ever dare the at-
tempt? My head swam as I gazed downward, and
then across, and I shrank back absolutely terrified at
the very thought.
Yet my nerve returned, and I found myself cool
and determined. It was no pleasant job, to be sure,
and I was compelled to steel myself to the attempt,
yet I no longer held back paralyzed by fear. I be-
lieved now it might be done, and hence drove myself
forward by sheer will power, forcing back the coward
in me. I easily found a secure fastening for the strip


A VENTURE OF PERIL 199
pore, as the full horror of my situation suddenly
flashed over me. I must go on, trusting to that thin,
unstable cord, balancing myself above the gulf. There
was no other way, no retreat, no means of escape. I
do not know now how the act was accomplished; it
is hardly a memory, except as some wild delirium
of sleep haunts one when they awake. It was done
with closed eyes, with bated breath, with groping
hands and feet working almost unconsciously, with
a heart which seemed to have ceased functioning, and
a deathly feeling of sickness no words can describe.
Inch by inch I crept, hand encroaching on hand, foot
pressing against foot, every slightest movement an in-
expressible agony—then I gripped the support of
wood once more, and clung to it as with the grasp
of death.


202 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
out was to descend. A narrow strip of carpeting—
rag I took it to be from the feeling—extended down
the center of the stairs, sufficient to muffle any foot-
steps, and I paused a moment listening for the slight-
est noise amid the darkness beneath. All remained
still and mysterious; so that I drew forth my shoes
from a coat pocket and slipped them on.
Twice the boards creaked ominously under my
tread, sounding terrific in that silence, and causing
me to hang in suspense over the banister rail, hold-
ing my breath in fear of discovery. Yet the noise
must have been unheard, as no stir resulted, and I
ventured again to slowly feel my way down gingerly,
testing each step before trusting it with my full
weight. At last I attained the wider space at the bot-
tom, and sought blindly to explore my surroundings.
The darkness was intense; I could not even perceive
my own hand held before my eyes. If there were
windows, they were tightly shuttered, and I felt none
in my groping along the wall. But for the carpet
underfoot, and a small sofa encountered in a recess, I
would have believed myself in a deserted house. I
knew I was on the third floor, yet there was no curve
in the banisters, showing a way to the next flight of
stairs, nor could I locate them by any effort. I felt
that I knew where they ought to be, but they were
not there, and, as result of blindly groping about, I
lost all sense of direction, and must have wandered
into a side-room through an undraped recess, for I
suddenly brought up against a table, littered with pa-
pers and books.


ANOTHER PRISONER 203
Startled by this encounter into a realization that
I was lost in a strange house at an unholy hour of
the morning, and that the slightest misstep in that
darkness might result in an alarm to awaken every
sleeper, for a few minutes I did not venture to move
in any direction. I could not determine where I came
from, or how I might discover a way of escape. Yet
manifestly I could not remain there indefinitely, and
so, blindly choosing a course, I set forth, feeling a
way cautiously forward until I first ran into a chair,
and then struck one hand against a side wall. I fol-
lowed this latter as best I could, colliding against vari-
ous articles of furniture, but fortunately without
noise, inspired by the thought that if I continued this .
course long enough I must attain the opening through
which I had entered the room. In all probability this
theory was a correct one, but on the way my hands
felt the outlines of a closed door, and, in aimlessly
groping about, encountered a key in the lock. It was
so inserted as to be extracted at the touch of my
fingers and instantly a tiny ray of light shot forth
through the vacated hole. It was such a relief in the
heart of that darkness as to cause me to quickly bend
down and endeavor to view the scene within.
The glimpse thus revealed was restricted, yet
yielded a fair idea of the interior. It was evidently
a chamber of some size, and well furnished, rather
dimly illuminated by a single shaded electric globe,
a handsome green rug on the floor, and numerous
pictures hung about the walls. I could perceive the
outlines of a bed at one side, barely within the range


204 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
of vision, and opposite this an ornate dresser, with
three mirrors. But what my eyes rested upon with
greater interest was a luxurious leather couch beside
the further wall on which a woman rested, with some
sort of covering draped about her. She lay with face
toward the wall, motionless, and to all appearances
sound asleep. I could mark her regular breathing,
but the only distinguishable features visible were the
well-brushed hair, an ear, and the contour of one up-
turned cheek.
The woman evidently was young, yet there ap-
peared nothing about her familiar, or of interest to
me; to arouse her was the last thing I desired, and
I would have slipped the key back into the lock, and
stolen silently along in the darkness, had she not sud-
denly stirred, flinging out one hand as though in fear
of some dream, and turned partially, so that her face
became clearly visible. The sleeper was Marie Gess-
ler! For a moment I could scarcely credit the dis-
covery; yet there could be no mistake. I remem-
bered too well every characteristic of the girl to be
deceived.
Yet what house was this that she should be here?
How did it happen that we were at the same place?
Had she come voluntarily; or as a prisoner? Had
Harris been right in his boasting that he knew who
she was, and where she could be reached? Had he
sought her the moment I was safely secured, and
brought her here where we might be made to con-
front each other? Had she been tricked into com-
ing? or brought by force? and was she held here help-


ANOTHER PRISONER 205
less to escape? I tried the door softly—it was locked.
This, coupled with the fact that the key was upon the
outside, served to answer the main question. How-
ever she came, she was now being held a prisoner.
We must both be in the same hands, in the unscrupu-
lous grasp of this desperate gang of criminals, deter-
mined to gain from us at any cost the secret we were
supposed to share. I hesitated, but for only a mo-
ment, debating with myself the best course to pursue.
Should I endeavor to escape from the house alone,
and then return to her rescue with help? or face the
greater danger of attempting to take her with me?
The former move involved exposure of her whole
connection with the affair, and I was afraid to take
upon myself the responsibility. I knew not who she
was, or why she had become involved in this mesh
of crime. I feared Harris' knowledge, the evidence
he might disclose, and what his passion for revenge
might drive him to do, if he once found his game
decisively blocked. It would be better for me to tell
her all first, and then act at her direction.
I reinserted the key in the lock noiselessly, shot
back the bolt and opened the door, stepping quickly
within to instantly shut out the glare of light. It
seemed to me this was accomplished in utter silence,
but she must have been sleeping very lightly, for, as
the door latched behind me, she was upon her feet,
plainly startled by the intrusion. -
“Who are you? What does this mean?—why, Mr.
Severn!”
- “Yes,” I responded quickly, yet making no effort


ANOTHER PRISONER 207
who murdered and robbed Alva, and where the spoils
are hidden. They endeavored first to put me through
the third degree, and when I refused to squeal—as
you know simply because I possessed no knowledge
to communicate—they resorted to force, and here I
am.”
Her eyes, wide open, questioning, were upon my
face. -
“They—they asked you about me? Why should
they suppose you know anything?”
“Largely because we were together at Perond's, I
presume. Besides, there were certain circumstances
which led Harris to associate us in other ways. He
claims to know you—who you are. Is that true?”
“It may be,” she admitted. “What has happened to-
night almost convinces me. I came here willingly,
only to find myself a prisoner. Sarah Waldron tele-
phoned me that she was ill, and needed me. I have
known her ever since I was a girl; we were from
the same town, so really I thought nothing unusual
of her call. I have seen no one here since I came—
no men, I mean—and did not remove my clothes, in
anticipation of being called.”
“Where is she sleeping?”
“In the room back of this.”
“She claimed to be here alone?”
“There are roomers on the floor below, but I met
none.”
“But I found your door locked,” I insisted. “The
key was upon the outside, but turned.”
“That is very strange. I heard nothing. Perhaps


208 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
if you will explain what they asked you, we may
come to some understanding of what this all means.
Does Harris accuse me of the robbery?”
“Yes, and of the murder. He claims to possess
proof, and threatened that he would denounce you
to the police unless he was let in on the division.”
“Poof! what does the fellow mean?”
“Well, the way he tells it the thing does sound
rather ugly,” I confessed regretfully, but believing
the time had arrived for plain speech between us:
“At least I was in no position to contravert his
claims.”
“You imply you suspect me also of this crime?”
“No, not that! I have given you my faith; but it
has been given blindly. You have refused me your
confidence. I do not even know your name, your
place of residence, how you became involved in this
cordon. You must acknowledge I am sadly handi-
capped when it comes to attempting your defense.
When you are attacked, I can only close my lips, and
say nothing.” -
“You have been very true, very kind,” she admitted,
and extended her hand. “You must know how
greatly I appreciate such faithfulness, Mr. Severn.
But tell me what Harris holds to be proof against
me. If all this be true, we cannot waste time here in
talk.”


CHAPTER XXIV: AT THE FOOT OF THE
STAIRS
O, it will soon be morning, and all way of es-
cape blocked. He is willing to swear that you
agreed to permit Alva to drive you downtown, and
that you actually departed together. This charge can
perhaps be answered by the testimony of Krantz, if
he can be got on the witness stand, as you have told
me he accompanied you on a street car.”
“Which is true.”
“I accept your word, of course, but Harris does
not, and I must confess he has some evidence to cre-
ate suspicion.”
“You say that!” *
“I must, to be perfectly honest. I will even con-
fess there have been times when I doubted—never
when I have been with you, but when alone, coldly
facing the facts of the case. Let me tell you—Alva
was undoubtedly killed with a dagger hatpin, exactly
like that one in your hat there,” and I pointed to it
on the dresser.
Her eyes turned that way in an expression of
startled surprise. “Killed with a hatpin like that of
mine!”
“Yes, there is no doubt as to the nature of the
weapon. I know more about that than Harris even.”
209


210 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“But how could the man have been killed with such
an instrument?”
“Easily enough. He was struck from behind. All
that was required was a strong blow at exactly the
right spot to pierce the heart. Whoever did it knew
the place, and drove the steel directly home.”
“But could a woman do it?”
“Yes, if desperate and determined enough.”
“How are you so sure a hatpin was the weapon
used? The police reports say nothing like that.”
“They do not know; I do. The truth is, I was the
first to discover the murder. I have never told any
one this, but it is true. I related to you my conver-
sation with Harris, after all others had left the foun-
dry. We must have been there alone for an hour,
When we left we separated, believing this to be safer,
and I walked down Gans Street alone in the rain.
Some blocks below the foundry I came upon this car,
bumped up against the curb, and apparently aban-
doned. The rear door stood wide open, and I looked
inside, and felt about, merely from curiosity. My
fingers touched something lying on the floor, and,
when I drew it out, and looked at it in the light of a
distant street-lamp, I discovered it to be a dagger hat-
pin, discolored with blood.”
She stared at me in horror, and I could even mark
the trembling of an uplifted hand.
“Like that one there?”
“Exactly like it. I had seen the one in your hat,
and remembered. That memory instantly recurred to
me.”


AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS 213
I told him about your having your own in your hat
at Perond's. I thought that might convince him he
had made a mistake; but it didn’t. He only laughed,
and said you were smart enough to buy another, as
soon as the first was found missing; that doubtless
there were plenty to be had.”
“He’s right; there are. At least I know of one shop
on lower Broadway where they are for sale.” She
stopped suddenly, with a peculiar gesture. “Why,
now I think of it, Sarah Waldron has one exactly like
mine; I bought it for her.”
“The woman here? Ivan Waldron’s wife?”
“Of course; that's rather odd, isn’t it?”
“It opens up a line of thought anyway. Could you
find out, do you suppose, if she has it still? What
does she know about her husband?”
The girl laughed softly.
“Know! Less even than I do, I imagine. He
doesn’t show up here oftener than once in six months,
and Sarah gets nothing from him. She wouldn't
know—why?”
“Because, after all, it might be the Russian; not
that I think he actually did the job, but he might be
mixed up in it in connection with some other crook.
If he was he would have to lie to Harris, and pretend
to know nothing. You heard how those two talked
at Perond's. What did you make of it?”
She drew her eyes together, leaving the marks of
a frown on her forehead.
“That they had planned together to rob Alva; that
Waldron was to be hidden somewhere outside, and


214 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
was to wait for Harris to signal him that the money
had been paid over.”
“Exactly; Harris failed to learn that the money
changed hands, and consequently did not signal. But
Waldron, nevertheless, was outside waiting; had no
doubt spotted Alva's machine, and was ready to act.
The one thing we do not know is—did Alva start
home alone; or did one of the men accompany him?
If the latter supposition is true then that fellow must
have committed the murder, with Waldron a possible
accomplice after the crime. If not true, then the only
other solution is that Alva picked Waldron up for
companionship. Were they acquainted at all?”
“I think so, but am not sure; you said Waldron
first reported this chance to Harris.” "
“So he did; then it is quite possible the two knew
each other. That would make it easy for the Rus-
sian to ask a ride. Whoever struck the blow was in
the rear seat. This theory fits in all right with his ac-
tions toward Harris.”
“I am not sure I understand.”
“Why, Harris hadn't signaled; therefore he had
every reason to suppose Waldron knew nothing about
Alva's having the money. Whether the murder and
robbery was accomplished alone, or with assistance of
some one else, Waldron is sufficiently a Jew to want
all he can get out of the job. He wouldn't divide
unless he had to. He was afraid of Harris that night;
he had been keeping away from him all day, and he
never got back his nerve until after he discovered
that Harris possessed no knowledge of what had oc-


AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS 215
*
curred—how Alva had met his death. When Harris
first entered, Waldron gripped a knife in his hand,
ready to defend himself; the fellow was frightened
half to death. Since then he's done everything Har-
ris has told him; accepted every suggestion, hoping
in this way to conceal his own secret. That is how
it begins to look to me.”
“Just because Sarah has a hat-pin like mine?”
“Knowing this makes the supposition more vivid
and convincing, but part of this theory has been form-
ing itself in my mind ever since last night. The hat-
pin merely supplies a link in the chain.”
“What do you mean to do?”
“Shadow Waldron; he is sure to expose himself
sooner or later. I can see no other point to work
from; but, first of all, we must get away from here,
out of the hands of these fellows. Could you find
your way to the stairs in the dark?”
“Yes. I have been here often.”
“Then I am going to turn out this light before
opening the door.”
We stood in the intense blackness, listening for
any warning sound without, my grasp on the knob.
The silence was so intense I could hear her soft
breathing at my shoulder; then her hand rested upon
mine in restraint.
“Just a moment, Philip Severn,” she whispered.
“You must not feel that I am indifferent to all you
are doing for me. It is wonderful to be trusted as
you trust, when everything looks wrong. Perhaps
that is why I cannot say more—it really means so


216 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
much to me that you accept my word without a ques-
tion.”
“I am afraid I haven't—always.”
“You have been a considerate gentleman. I realize
now how thoroughly this has tested you. Nor is the
test over. I cannot talk freely here, or explain; only
insist that my purpose is a worthy one of which you
need not be ashamed. You accept me just as I am?”
“Without a question, or a doubt,” I answered, re-
turning the firmness of her grasp, “and asking only
one pledge.”
“What is that?”
“That you will not go away again, leaving me help-
less to find you.”
She caught her breath quickly as if in surprise.
“That is not much to promise, is it! Yes. I give
the pledge; you shall find me, when you will.”
“Then I am satisfied, whatever mystery still fronts
me. Now, let us try our luck.”
She led the way confidently enough, moving si-
lently along the wall, I keeping close so as to touch
her. Intensely dark as the room was she exhibited
no hesitancy, and a few steps brought us forth into
the hall at the head of a flight of stairs leading down-
ward. My fingers gripped the banisters, while she
stood aside to let me pass. Beneath all was black
and silent.
“You better go ahead now; the next flight is di-
rectly beyond this, and ends at the street door.”
“What is the next floor like?”


AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS 217
“Just a large reception hall, the chambers are all
to the rear.”
“You Will follow P”
“Of course; I shall keep right behind you.”
We went down step by step, not a stair creaking,
or a sound louder than our own breathing. The
staircase was wider than that above, and thickly Cat-
peted; occasionally her hand encountered mine as we
grasped the rail for guidance. I reached the last step,
warned by the newel post, and felt ahead with one
groping foot to assure myself of the level beyond.
Her fingers grasped my sleeve, and lips almost at my
ear, whispered a barely audible warning.
“Look to the right! What is that?”


OUT OF DARKNESS, A CLEW 219
lows would never follow. These considerations
flashed instantly through my mind, the blazing tip of
that cigar glowing red before me. It did not change
its position, evidence that the smoker had overheard
nothing thus far to disturb his serenity. The odor of
tobacco became more noticeable. I put my lips close
against the girl’s ear.
“It is a guard there smoking. Don’t try to answer,
but do exactly as I say. One of us, at least, must get
out; you stand the better chance, with my remaining
behind to hold these fellows back if there should be
any alarm. If there is not, I’ll follow. Do you un-
derstand?—answer with your hand.”
I felt the firm pressure of her fingers in quick re-
sponse.
“Go straight ahead, and never mind me. Whatever
happens behind you, unlock the door and get outside.
Not a sound that you can help. Are you ready?”
Again the clasp of her fingers made answer, silent
but obedient.
“The fellow evidently hasn’t heard anything yet—
you better go.”
I felt her creep past me without a sound, her hand
slipping from my grasp as her foot touched the level
floor of the hall. She was invisible, no longer even
a shadow in the black gloom. I only knew she was
gone, as I bent anxiously forward, watchful of the
red glow of that mysterious cigar. The fellow rose
up, and stretched, the silence echoing each sound.
Would he come forward, or sit down again? I could
only crouch low behind the newel post, judging his


222 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
like the leg of a chair. Harris caught the full force
of the blow just over his eyes and the power of it,
added to the swirl of my arms, sent him hurtling
along the rounded rail, headlong down the stairs.
Waldron stood paralyzed, stunned, his hands still on
the club, his eyes following that flying figure. With
all my strength I drove a fist flat to his face, and, as
he reeled, stumbling backward, endeavoring to retain
his feet, I sprang past, and raced down the steps.
The body lay at the bottom motionless, huddled up
in such fashion as to block the door. Without a
doubt but that the man was dead, I thrust the form
to one side, leaped through the opening, and crashed
the door behind me.
I had but one thought—to get away from there;
to seek immediate security, and an opportunity to
consider the situation. My mind was in a chaos,
aware only of the horror I had witnessed, the scene
from which I was endeavoring to escape. This was
murder, a murder Waldron would doubtless attempt
to swear on me. But would he? Would the fellow
dare? To do so would reveal everything—the con-
spirators’ meeting, the plot to rob, the death of Alva,
the cause of my being there in the house. Yet what
could he say otherwise to account for the killing of
Harris? He would have to explain; he could never
hide, or destroy the body. Miss Gessler had said
there were roomers on that floor, and I had heard
the scream of a woman. Whatever happened, I must
get away, and learn later what course he chose to
pursue. If I only knew where the girl was I might


OUT OF DARKNESS, A CLEW 223
hope to arrange some defense, some excuse for my
presence, some reason for the fight in which I had been
engaged. Others might have seen the blow struck.
But I was sure of nothing, not even that she would
come forward voluntarily when she heard of the af-
fair.
I turned to the left, afraid of the bright lights,
and the street-cars, and plunged into the depths of
an alley. Beyond was a dark street along which I
ran for two blocks, then suddenly crouched in an
areaway to permit a policeman to saunter by. He saw
nothing, but I lay quiet until he turned from sight at
the next block, and then moved on, slinking through
the shadows, and cutting across an open lot through
a tangle of weeds. I may have gone a mile, twisting
and turning before I came to what evidently was a
small hotel. Here I encountered a cab, an old horse
cab, the driver half asleep inside. I hung back in
the dark shade afraid to awaken the fellow, yet I
knew little of that part of the city, and must find
transportation of some kind. An old-time cabby was
not liable to care who his fare might be so long as
he was well paid. Encouraged by this reflection, I
stepped over to the curb.
“Engaged, my man?”
He came to life in an instant, tumbling out of his
comfortable quarters to face me.
“No, sir. I never heard you comin', sir. Bin a
bit quiet about here to-night.”
He stopped, as though just noticing my appearance
under the dim street lights.


OUT OF DARKNESS, A CLEW 225
“When was that?” I was using the towel by this
time, eying the loquacious speaker over the edge.
“Night afore last.”
“Yes, but what time?”
“’Bout midnight; I’d hed a fare down thet way,
an’ wus drivin' back empty, when he hollered to me
to stop. Gosh, the feller tumbled in like there was
a ghost after him, an’ sed I wus ter drive like hell.”
“What makes you think he was foreign?”
“The cut of his jib mostly; then he didn't git his
English just right—excited, I reckon—an once he
ripped off a word er two I sorter took ter be Russian
Or Polish.”
“Had a grip with him, did he?”
“Yep; black, 'bout medium size. The fellow wasn’t
overly big himself, an’ it wus quite a lug for him; it
bumped against his legs when he toted it. I wouldn’t
a thought nuthin more 'bout it, only I got hol’ of a
paper, an’ read how there wus a guy croaked that
same night over in Jersey. It sorter made me think
o' this feller, just because he wus so damned scared.
It wus sorter funny where he had me set him down,
too, after midnight thet way.”
“Where was that?”
“Colmar Buildin’ on Broad Street. Wa’n’t a darn
light from top to bottom. He didn’t let me pull up
there—not by a damn sight. I had ter let him out a
block away, around the corner. But somehow I sorter
wanted ter know just where the bloke went, so I
slipped off the box, an’ took a peek. He turned in
there, where it wus blacker than a stack o’ black cats,


226 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
an' thet's the last I seen of him. S'pose he wus the
duck who did that job, sir?”
“He might have been, of course. Did you report
it to the police?”
“Lord, no; if us fellers told the cops half we know
they wouldn't get no sleep at all. I ain't sed nothin'
to nobody. Only pickin' you up yere just now sorter
made me think of the cuss again. Ready to go now,
sir?”
*


CHAPTER xxVI: IN THE COLMAR BUILDING
IS horse was not a fast traveler, yet this af-
forded me time to think over my own situa-
tion, as well as this clew so unconsciously furnished
me by the loquacious driver. Here was something to
start on, at least, revealing a new angle, and yielding
a measure of hope. The chances were that this mys-
terious passenger of two nights before had no con-
nection with the Alva case; yet there remained a pos-
sibility. The hour, the place, his evident fear of pur-
suit, his eager desire to get out of sight, the heavy
bag he carried, and his being a foreigner of some
kind, all combined to stimulate my suspicion. Who
the fellow could be was beyond guess. No one an-
swering that description had yet been considered; per-
haps that was why we had been led so far astray.
The Colmar Building! My recollection of the place
was vague, a huge pile on Broad near Wall, devoted
largely to brokers’ offices, absolutely deserted at night,
except by scrubwomen and a watchman or two. A
tenant might slip in at such an hour, yet he would be
fortunate indeed to escape the observation of some
one along the halls, or on the staircase. I felt con-
fident a careful questioning among the night em-
ployees would give some line on the identity of the
man, even if there should prove no other means of
locating him. I would make the trial anyway, as soon
227


228 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
|
as I had decided my own immediate course of action;
that must be figured out first.
A faint glimmer of dawn was in the air, and the
streets we traversed were almost completely deserted.
Occasionally a taxi passed, and I could hear street-
cars in the distance, with here and there a belated
pedestrian homeward bound. A policeman yawned
on a corner curiously watching us go by, and a porter
was sweeping out a saloon. Even night-life had died
out in this vacant hour between night and day. It
was like a ghost city, yet as I stared rather dumbly
at these things, and the broad back of the driver in
front, his horse plodding steadily over the smooth
pavement, I was conscious of being able to think
clearly—the first paralyzing effect of fear was pass-
ing away. One thing was settled; I must go back to
the hotel. If I was to pay my bill and depart I would
lose all connection with Marie Gessler; she would
then possess no means of finding me. I could not
seek her, but she possessed my address, and must
surely endeavor to communicate with me before night.
The only thing, then, was to remain and wait for her
to call. Yet this surely exposed me to the danger
of arrest, if Waldron named me to the police in con-
nection with the death of Harris. He probably was
not aware of where I was stopping, but he knew my
name, had doubtless recognized me, and Costigan
would very easily supply the address.
Yet by this time I was firmly convinced that the
Russian would either lie outright in the affair—claim-
ing that Harris' injuries had resulted wholly from a


230 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
myself across the bed, almost instantly dropping
asleep.
I awoke at eleven, rested and with a clear brain.
Nothing had occurred to disturb me, and, as I looked
at the watch and realized the hour, felt no longer
a doubt but what Waldron had found some way in
which to protect us both. It was a disappointment
that the girl had not yet telephoned, but probably
she would before night. If there was any mention
of the affair in the papers, she would be sure to see it,
and feel anxious to hear my version. With these
thoughts in mind, and eager to look over the noon
edition myself, I dressed rather hurriedly, and de-
scended to the lobby. The paper secured contained
barely a stickful, devoid of particulars. “Gentleman
George” Harris, well known to the police, had been
found dead in the hallway of a rooming house on Le
Compte Street, operated by Mrs. Sarah Waldron.
His head was crushed in by the blow of a heavy club,
and he had fallen the full length of the stairs. It is
believed to have been a thieves' quarrel from the evi-
dence of those in the house, who heard the sounds
of a struggle, and saw a strange man escape through
the front door. There were no arrests, although the
police were searching for certain parties who might
be implicated.
So far so good; but now what about the Russian?
He had evidently escaped suspicion, yet would be far
from easy in his own mind. The situation in which
he found himself would only serve to increase his de-
sire to secure the money, and get safely away while


232 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
the list, I recognized no name of either individual or
firm which gave me any clew to the man sought. I
was hunting a needle in the haystack, yet persevered
merely because I knew of nothing better to do, deter-
mined not to abandon the search while any hope re-
mained.
I took an elevator to the twelfth floor, and walked
slowly from end to end of the marble corridor, read-
ing the names on the glass doors as I passed. I met
but few people and attracted no attention, passing
down the stairway to the floor below. All kinds of
business seemed to be represented in the various of-
fices, but among them no glimpse of a familiar name.
In this manner, growing more pessimistic as I pro-
ceeded, I had reached the fifth floor, when, as I
turned at the front of the iron stairs, my glance rested
on the letters stenciled along the frosted glass op-
posite—“Mutual Investment Company, Gaspar Wine,
Manager.” I stopped still, my heart beating wildly,
feeling that I had stumbled blindly on the very thing
I had been seeking. Gaspar Wine was the name of
the man who, through accident, had opened to me the
door leading into the Alva factory; the man who had
left me alone in the entry while he disappeared to
talk with Alva privately in the little side-room. I
could not be mistaken in the name, and I recalled the
glimpse I had of his face, with its closely-trimmed
beard, and oddly high forehead, the hair brushed
straight up. Gaspar Wine! For the first time I
really believed the old hack driver was right—he had
actually picked up just such a fare, lugging a bag


IN THE COLMAR BUILDING 233
with him, and driven the fellow to this place at mid-
night. I had never connected the crime with Wine
before—yet why not? He was among those present;
he had been alone with Alva; he doubtless knew of
the transferring of the money; and he answered fully
the description of the man the cabby had picked up
near the Jersey docks.
There were seemingly two offices in the suite occu-
pied by the “Mutual Investment Company,” and each
had an outside door, one marked “Private,” the other
“General Office.” The former was directly opposite
the foot of the stairs, the latter a step or two down
the corridor. The elevator shafts were some dis-
tance away, across the hall, while the office space ad-
joining appeared to be unoccupied. There was let-
tering on the door, “Railway Exchange,” but the
glass was dingy with dirt, and light streaming through
spoke of no shades at the outer windows. Several
people left, and took the elevators as I stood there,
half hidden behind the curve of the wall, the former
disappearing through various doors along the corri-
dor, but none approached Wine's office, or perceived
me on the stairs.
I stood there irresolute, undecided as to my next
move. I had made an important discovery, and felt
convinced I was at last on the right trail, but how
could I verify my suspicion? There seemed to be but
one sure method. Whoever had actually committed
the murder and robbery, I still clung to the theory
that Ivan Waldron knew him, and would demand his
share as the price of a silent tongue. Nor would he,


234 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
under present circumstances, be content to wait very
long for such a division. He needed the money more
than ever to escape from the observation of the po-
lice. If Wine had possession of the valise he would
certainly be called upon to deliver a portion of its
contents very shortly. My best course then was to
keep an eye open for Waldron; if he came, there
would be no doubt as to the exact nature of his er-
rand.
Yet where could I remain to observe his arrival?
and, above all, how could I hope to overhear any-
thing passing between the two. Mere suspicion gave
me nothing to act upon; I must obtain some direct
proof of guilt before even venturing to make my
theory known to others. Thus far I had none worthy
of consideration, nor would the mere fact that Wal-
dron visited Wine's office be esteemed of particular
significance as connecting the two with the murder of
Gustave Alva. He might come there for a hundred
reasons equally innocent, and while his mere presence
might convince me that the two were implicated in
the same crime, it would satisfy no one else; would
yield no proof of guilt warranting an arrest.
The stairway gave me no advantage; it was open
and doubtless frequently used. To be seen loitering
there for any length of time would attract attention.
I ventured to try the private door, but, as expected,
found it securely locked, nor did I dare exert any
force, not knowing who might be inside. The office
remained quiet, no one either leaving or entering, nor
did I observe any shadow on the frosted glass indica-


IN THE COLMAR BUILDING 235
tive of movement within. Baffled and uncertain, I
had barely returned to my point of concealment, when
an elevator stopped at this floor level, and three men
stepped out into the corridor. Two of them attracted
no attention, but the third was in his shirt-sleeves
and wore a cap with some insignia upon it. He ad-
vanced briskly, and flung open the door leading into
what had once been the “Railway Exchange,” and
motioned the others to enter. As the three vanished,
I heard him explain that this was the only vacant
suite on this floor, and then another voice said dissatis-
fied that it was altogether too small for their pur-
pose. They were not inside five minutes, and, when
they came out, the agent closed the door carelessly,
and pressed the elevator button, saying he would
show them something on the second floor above.
Even as they shot up out of sight I was across the
corridor with hand on the knob. I feared a spring-
lock, but was pleasantly disappointed, the door open-
ing instantly, permitting me to slip inside. There
were two rooms, both small, and littered with the
fragments left by the late occupants. There were
no shades at the windows, and the walls were bare,
and not overly clean. What struck me most forcibly,
however, was that there was no connection between
those rooms and the next suite; they were separated
by a thick wall. I could hide here securely enough,
and, by slightly lifting the glass, gain good view of
the corridor, but it would be impossible to overhear
anything taking place in Wine's office. At that, the
position was better for my purpose than the open


236 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
stairway, and I unfastened the window sash, propping
it open a crack so as to afford me a fair view. If Wal-
dron appeared I would endeavor to discover some
means of learning the object of his visit. Meanwhile
I was safe enough, and able to observe every move-
ment on the floor.
I must have been there for half an hour, seeing no
one pass but an occasional clerk. I found an empty
box to sit upon, and rested back in one corner, my
eyes at the narrow opening. I began to think the In-
vestment office was without occupants, no one ap-
proaching the door, and no sound reaching me
through the solid partition. The elevators seldom
stopped at this floor, and when they did the passen-
gers alighting mostly turned the other way. My in-
terest began to lag, yet I determined to hang on
grimly until the place emptied for the night.
Suddenly, when I least expected it, the door of the
Investment office opened, and a young woman came
out. She had her hat on, and was buttoning her coat
as she walked down the corridor. I took note of a
pencil stuck into her hair, and felt no doubt she was
Wine's stenographer, who had finished her day's work
and was departing for home. Then the man was
probably still there—alone. The girl disappeared
down the elevator, and could scarcely have reached
the lower floor, when a cage traveling in the opposite
direction stopped and discharged a passenger. It was
a woman who stepped out, glancing quickly about as
though uncertain where to go, and I recognized Marie
Gessler.


CHAPTER XXVII: GASPAR WINE–INVEST-
MENTS
WAS so startled by the girl's unexpected appear-
ance in that place as to be helpless. I could only
stare motionless, with a queer sense of surprise com-
pletely stunning me. Could she be also seeking Wine?
If so, for what end? Surely she could have no other
purpose on this particular floor, at this time. It must
be Wine, and her attempt to find him must be con-
nected with the robbery. Either she had stumbled
upon some clew pointing toward him; or else she
knew that he had obtained the money, and was en-
deavoring to make the fellow disgorge. There was
one other possibility; the man might have succeeded
Alva as leader of that gang of conspirators, causing
her to seek him in that connection. I could at least
be assured on one point, she had never visited him
before, for she had no knowledge where his office
WalS. -
She started down the corridor, looking for the
numbers on the doors, and then, discovering herself
wrong, retraced her steps, going past so close to where
I was I could have thrust out a hand and touched
her. I possessed every inclination to speak, yet hesi-
tated, and in that instant she had gone by, and ap-
proached Wine's door. Even then she appeared to
237


GASPAR WINE—INVESTMENTS 239
But when I was alone, when I fronted, as I did
now, some strange conduct which no reasoning made
clear, my faith staggered. I could not help it—I felt
betrayed, disillusioned, a mere pawn in some game in
which she matched her beauty against my trust. If
she conceived that Wine was one of those most
deeply concerned in this affair, why had she not con-
fided in me? If she must visit him why was I not
asked to accompany her? She knew my address;
where I could be reached by phone; why, then, should
she ignore me so completely? There must be a se-
cret reason. What could it be other than a desire to
share the ill-gotten spoils of murder and robbery?
Right or wrong, this was the dominant thought with
which suspicion overwhelmed me. I could not find
any escape from such conclusion; no other theory
seemed to coincide with all the facts.
Yet I struggled against it man fully, loving her still,
and eager to discover the slightest excuse which might
explain her strange conduct. None satisfied; the very
expression of the man's voice in that startled greet-
ing typified some secret understanding between them,
bespoke fear that her presence there might be discov-
ered. He was afraid, surprised out of all composure
at her unexpected entrance. Yet what could I hope
to do toward learning the truth? What, even if I
found opportunity? Could I spy upon them? Could
I, through some effort, creep forward like a snake,
and overhear their conversation? I cast the tempta-
tion indignantly from me; such an act would be cow-
ardly, unworthy, never be forgiven. But would it?


GASPAR WINE—INVESTMENTS 241
eyes peering through the narrow crack at what was
revealed within. They perceived little, merely a small,
unoccupied room, evidently an outer office, contain-
ing a cheap desk, two chairs and a typewriting stand,
the machine covered. Two maps hung upon the
walls; in one corner was a glass water-holder, and in
the other a diminutive closet, the door ajar. A gray
drill matting protected the floor, while an electric
drop-light hung dangling over the desk. That was
all, except that indistinguishable voices were convers-
ing somewhere beyond. These did not cease, evi-
dence that the movement of the door had attracted
no attention. The speakers must be beyond the par-
tition and well out of view.
Encouraged to believe this I thrust my head far
enough forward to make sure. An alcove led to the
inner room, where I could perceive one end of a
rolled-top desk, together with a waste-basket filled
with papers, but nothing more. A step to the left
would doubtless have revealed Wine, but from where
I stood the end of the partition interfered. By slip-
ping to the right it would be quite possible for me to
enter without being seen, and three cautious steps
would bring me to the security of the closet. From
there, with the door into the corridor closed, I might
overhear all that passed between the two. I had ven-
tured too far now to retreat, and, without a second
of hesitation, I pressed through the narrow opening,
and silently closed the door behind me. The rug muf-
fled my footsteps, and, confident that I had not been
detected, I crouched into the narrow closet, scarcely


GASPAR WINE–INVESTMENTS 243
you take the trouble to come here and tell me this?”
She laughed lightly.
“Why? really it is easily enough understood. We
are together, are we not? Now that Captain Alva is
dead, it is generally believed you will be selected to
lead in this work. Oh, yes it is; I have already been
so informed. And in that case it is absolutely neces-
sary that your bank connections be excellent. There
are other funds already in this country.”
“Other funds! You learn this from Washington?”
“Yes, and from the bank; all these moneys pass
through our hands in one way or another; that is how
I first became used as a messenger.”
“I know; Alva told me, but I supposed this last
payment was to be all.”
“Assuredly not; the cause had practically unlimited
means under our present arrangements in London.
It cannot stop for an instant merely because of this
loss. Moreover, that will doubtless be recovered.”
“Do you think so? Have the police found any
clews?” -
“The police! Hardly, but there are others search-
ing, not so easily turned aside. We believe we know
already who got the money.”
“You—you think you—you know?” he could not
keep the tremble out of his voice. “Was—was it one
of us?”
“It could scarcely be an outsider, for the secret
was guarded well. Only those of that circle knew the
money was here even, while not more than two or
three were aware of its having been passed over to


244 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
Alva. I can’t say any more at present, Mr. Wine.
You knew Captain Alva very well, did you not?”
“Y-yes; that is, we were good friends; he brought
a letter to me when he first came.”
“And you have been associated rather closely ever
since?”
“We had much in common.”
“Are you a German?”
“By blood—yes, but born in Poland; Captain
Alva's mother was also a Pole; this brought us closer
together.”
“The special tie then was not Chilean?”
“No; I have never been in South America. I am
a Revolutionary. We really planned for a world re-
public,” he explained eagerly, “the downfall of all
oppression; we would build anew on the ruin of Na-
tions. Chile came first, for it seemed ripe for the
experiment. Surely you understand that?”
“Of course—International brotherhood. You
were most intimate with Captain Alva. No doubt he
told you about this money?”
“That is that it had been sent—yes.”
“You knew nothing of its delivery to him?”
“My God, no.”
“You were with him alone before the meeting.”
“We spoke of other things; not once was the
money mentioned.”
“And you have no suspicion of any one who could
have known, and been guilty of this murder and rob-
bery?”
“Why should I? Why you ask me that?” excit-


GASPAR WINE–INVESTMENTS 245
edly. “There were many there; perhaps all know ex-
cept me. I could not guess, for I was the second man
to leave; you see, the second; only Charlett go out
before I do. Captain Alva he still remain behind
when I go. I saw him last then, talking with many.
You not suppose I know he—he die?”
“Oh, no; I merely thought you might have some
suspicion, that was all. It was a strange weapon he
was killed with.”
“A strange weapon! What you mean, a strange
weapon? Do they know what it was that killed him?”
“Certainly; it was picked up in the bottom of the
auto—a dagger hat-pin, such as women wear. See,
it was just like this of mine.”
She must have plucked the ornament from out her
own hat and laid it on the desk, for I heard the faint
click of its fall. There was a moment of intense
silence, and I could vision the intense horror with
which he was staring at the instrument, unable to
command words.
“That thing!” he burst forth finally. “Killed with
that!”
“No, not that; but one exactly like it.”
“Who says so—the police? Gott! it could not kill
a man. Why you tell me this—why?”
“Oh, only because I thought you might be inter-
ested. However, let's not talk about it any more.
You will settle that account before the close of bank-
ing hours to-morrow?”
“I? Yes, I will settle.”
There was the sound of a foot on the cement floor


246 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
of the corridor without, and, almost at the same in-
stant the electric light, which had been turned on,
revealed a man's shadow on the glass of the closed
door. He seemed to stand there hesitatingly; then
he rapped with his knuckles on the glass.


248 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“Well first you tell me,” thundered Waldron, grip-
ping the other angrily with one hand, “what business
that female has with you? By God, Wine, if you
are trying to double-cross, you'll find me no easy
mark. Answer, you cur—what was she here for?” .
“Nothing, only private business. I swear it was
nothing else.”
“You promised to see her to-morrow?”
“Yes, it was to pay a note. Come in here, and I'll
explain all. There's nothing to frighten you, Walz
dron.”
“The hell there ain't! Perhaps I know better than
you do what is on tap. All right, I’ll sit down and
hear what you got to say, but I ain't goin' to waste
no time, let me tell you, in listenin’ to no long story.
I got to get a bunch o' money quick and get out of
here.”
The two disappeared into the inner room, Wal-
dron's voice still rumbling, with Wine interjecting a
word now and then. His whole manner had changed
before the threatening attitude of his companion, and
he no longer blustered over the unexpected appear-
ance of the fellow, but seemed anxious to get rid of
him in the easiest and quickest way possible. His
bluster had changed to wheedling, and he appeared
willing to concede anything rather than prolong the
interview. I ventured to stand erect again in the con-
fines of the closet, and press my ear to the crack of
the inner door. Both men were confident of being
alone, and so deeply immersed in their own affair as
to speak with little restraint. Waldron, really af-


250 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
three months; now I promise to pay it all up to-
morrow.”
“Oh, you did, hey! out of that stuff, I suppose?”
Wine's response was barely audible.
“Where else I get it, you think? Mein Gott, I have
no more.”
“Say,” burst out Waldron suspiciously, “that's all
right, but what bothers me is why this girl should
hit you for it at just this particular time. Krantz
must have sent her, but what made them think you
had money now? It ain't very likely they was just
takin' a chance, is it? What security did they have?”
“Captain Alva he signed with me, that was all. I
figured that with him dead Krantz thought he better
squeeze me.” -
“Exactly, and so he sent this young woman to tell
you about this other money coming. He knew you
would recognize her, and jump at the chance to come
through. I believe that is all a damn lie; they haven’t
got any more coming. Only I do think they im-
agined you might have some on hand.”
“How they imagine that?”
“Search me, Wine; only I happen to know there is
a hell of a lot going on under the surface. It don’t
look good to me, they jumping you just at this time.”
“What you mean? You have not spilled nothing?”
“Me!” he laughed roughly. “Damn it, I'm not the
spilling kind. There's been plenty o' fellers after the
dope, let me tell you, but I’ve let 'em hunt. Say, I’ve
had to laugh sometimes the way they’ve been fooled.
You know that guy who called himself Horner?”


A QUARREL BETWEEN THIEVES 251
“Sure—a smart fellow.”
“You bet he is; a damn sight smarter than you
think. He ain't Horner at all, if you ask me; his
right name was Harris, as slick a crook as ever lived.”
“Harris? a crook? What was it I saw in the pa-
per? Wasn’t he the same guy what was croaked
last night?”
“You bet he was; that's what I'm telling you about;
that's why I come up here to get this off my chest.
He biffed this fellow Horner coming over. I don’t
know nothin about how he did the job, but Horner
ain’t never showed up since. Instead this guy Harris
blew in with all his papers, an’ started negotiatin'
with Krantz and Alva. He an Alva got awful thick.”
“I know; what was the game?”
“To get that check into cash, of course. He hung
around for that purpose for weeks, an’ then missed
out.”
“An' you knew him, an’ never said a word?”
“Sure I knew him, first time I got eyes on the
bloater; but what was it to me? I’m not in this busi-
ness for my health, Wine. I never gave a damn who
got hands on that stuff, so I had my grab at it. Har-
ris an I had it framed; that's why I was out there,
waitin' for a signal from him. But when you beat
him to it, I’d just as soon be your running mate as
his.”
“Huh! don’t talk so loud! And now you say Har-
ris is dead?”
“As a mackerel; he couldn’t be no deader. But
that was my house where he was croaked, an’ so I


252 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
-e-
got to get out o' town. The police ain't wise so far,
but they might tumble if I hang around.”
“That why you come here?”
“Exactly; I’ve got to have some rino right away,
and it's up to you to see that I'm heeled. You know
where the stuff is, and how to get it quick.”
“I wouldn’t dare use that money yet; I haven’t
even opened the bag.”
“The hell you wouldn't! You are goin’ to cop off
enough to pay that note to-morrow, ain't you?
That's what you promised the girl. Well, I'm just as
important as she is, I reckon, and I’m goin’ to have
my share, you bet, or else I'll make it hot for you—
I'll say that.”
“You haven't nothing but your own word.”
“Ain’t I Say, Wine, don’t be a fool; there are
others beside us that's got a nose in this affair. The
hunt ain’t all over just because Harris is croaked. I
don’t count the police, for, as far as I know, they
haven’t even struck a scent yet, but there's a saloon-
keeper down on Sixth Avenue, named Costigan, who's
got all o' Harris’ dope, an’ he’s goin’ to keep on the
trail. Then there's another fellow who's liable to
raise hell. I ain't got him exactly placed yet, but he's
the guy that led up to Harris being killed. I'm the
only one what knows that, an I ain’t talked before.”
“Who is he—a detective?”
“Maybe; Harris called him Severn. First he mis-
took him for a fly-bird named Daly, but after a while
he got on to the fact that he wasn't Daly at all. They
got the guy down into Costigan's and the three of us


A QUARREL BETWEEN THIEVES 253
slugged him. Harris wouldn’t let us put him clear
out, for he sorter had an idea that the fellow might
know where the stuff had gone. I didn't say nothin',
of course, an’ so they patched him up, and then locked
him into a back room over in my place. The next
morning they was goin’ to give him the third degree.
Then with him safe, Harris went after this girl,
thinking she would be made to talk.”
“What could she know about it?”
“Don’t ask me; I just drifted along to please 'em.
What made them think the two were together was,
they were both eating at the same table over at Pe-
rond's the night before. I don’t suppose I got it just
straight, but Harris an Costigan had got it doped
out in their noodles that these were the people that
copped the boodle, an’ were crazy to get one of them
to squeal.”
“Not the girl?”
“Sure; Harris got it into his nut that she left out
there with Alva, an’ the two being together the next
night made him sure he was on the right trail. It
suited me to let them think that, so I didn’t say
nothin'. I didn’t want no trouble with Harris, ner
Costigan either for the matter of that—they’re both
of 'em bad actors.”
“Well, then, what happened?”
“That's mostly guess-work. They had this guy
Severn locked in upstairs. He was unconscious when
we dumped him there, and later, when my wife got
this girl to come over—they was raised in the same
town—Harris he turned the key on her. They was


254 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
aiming to bring them together the next morning, but
somehow Severn must have woke up, an’ got out o'
the room, for the next thing I know’d he was, fightin'
Harris out in the hall, an after that I found the girl
had skipped out durin’ the fracas.”
“They both got away?”
“Clean, leaving Harris behind with his skull busted;
deader than a door-nail when I got to him.”
“And you don't know who this Severn is? or what
he is up to?”
“No, I don’t, Wine, but he's sure got some game
on, an he's got my goat. He's in with the girl all
right, and knows too damn much. That's what makes
me leery about her being here pumpin' you.”
“She didn't pump me.”
“You mean to say the two of you didn’t talk about
A1Va?” -
“We talked about him, of course; we couldn’t help
it, but she never hinted at nothing, and she didn't
ask no questions. Only it seems they’ve found out
one thing that hain't been reported by the police—
she knew what he was killed with.”
“What's that! She told you what stuck him?”
“You bet she did; she had one of 'em herself, an’
took it out of her hat, and put it right down here
on the desk. I thought for a second I was going to
keel over, but she didn't notice, just went on talkin’.
How do yer suppose she ever found that out?”
“Severn told her, that's how. It was dropped there
in the dark. That feller got it some way, and hid it
in his valise. That was what made Harris so sure


A QUARREL BETWEEN THIEVES 255
he was in on the job, because he raided the room at
some hotel and found the thing. I don't know what
to make o all this dope, Wine, but I'm damn sure
I’m goin’ to skip out fer a while, an you better do
the same. It don’t look none too healthy ter me.”
“You don’t imagine the girl is playin’ us?”
“I don’t imagine nuthin', but I’m playin' safe. I
don’t know what the hell either of them are up to,
but I figure they know too damn much, an I ain’t
goin’ to take any chances hangin’ round till they nose
out the rest. That's my idea, to skip out while there's
some chance to get away. So pony up my share,
Wine, an then you can do whatever you darn please
with what's comin’ to you. What do you say?”
I could hear the other tramping nervously back and
forth across the room. His failure to answer must
have angered the Russian, for, after a minute, he
burst out with an oath:
“Damn it, why don't yer say something? Part o'
this boodle's mine, ain’t it?”
“Y-yes—of course.”
“Well, then, cough it up! Where did you plant
the stuff?”
“It's put away in a safety vault,” Wine explained,
his voice almost failing him. “Honest, Waldron, I
can’t get it to-night, it's too late. The bank is locked,
and I haven’t opened it.”
“You’re a liar! you never dared to lug the thing
around ! You wouldn't be seen with it in your hand
in daylight. I know you, you sneaking cur. You
brought the stuff straight to this office that night,



256 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
and, by God, I believe it is here yet. What do you
want me to do—kill you, and then hunt? That is
what's goin' to happen, unless you come across, too.
I'll shake the gizzard out of you, you little sneak, if
you try any trick on me.”
He must have gripped the other, for there was a
struggle, Wine whimpering as though half choked.
“Speak up, you cur! This thing divides fifty-fifty.
Where is it now? What's that—behind those books?
Hell, I wouldn't believe you under oath. Go get it
out from there; let's have a look at the stuff.”
He must have flung the other clear across the room,
for he came down sprawling, his body striking against
the door of the closet, behind which I crouched. The
catch broke under the impact, and, before I could
draw back, I was in full view of both men.


CHAPTER XXIX: THE DEATH OF A MUR-
DERER
INE, outstretched on the floor at my very feet,
stared up at me, so startled by my sudden
appearance as to be speechless. His face was chalky,
and his lips opened and shut without uttering a sound.
Waldron, oblivious of all else but the money, now
almost in his possession, was upon his knees before a
bookcase, dragging out the heavy volumes from the
lower shelf, dumping them on the floor. From be-
hind these he had already drawn forth into view a
black leather valise, when Wine found voice, uttering
a strange cry of terror, which caused him to glance
about. He leaped to his feet instantly, his eyes glar-
ing into mine, one hand flung back as though in search
of a weapon. -
I gave him no time. I cared nothing for that whim-
pering cur on the floor, but this other was desperate
and dangerous, and I leaped straight at him, striking
so hard even as we grappled that the blow sent him
reeling back against the bookcase. He knew me then,
and the recognition brought with it a fury which
transformed the Russian into a wild beast. Coward
as I felt him to be, now that he was cornered, with
the spoils of victory in his very grasp, he became a
demon, a mad dog, whose only desire was to kill.
257


258 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
“You, you damned spy,” he snapped savagely. “I
know your game now, and you won’t get away this
time. Take him from behind, Wine! Club him; he's
a dirty police sneak!” -
We struggled back and forth, neither of us daring
to release a grip for fear of losing an advantage. His
strength matched whatever skill I possessed, and I
could not break away from the pressure of his arms.
Yet I managed to hang on in such a way as to pre-
vent his drawing a gun, and gained a grip on his
whiskers which enabled me to twist his head to one
side until I expected to hear his neck crack. Back
and forth we stumbled over the books on the floor,
and the valise, kicking these out of the way. In one
of our fierce surges the bookcase was overturned,
coming down with a crash, but with no interruption
of the struggle. The Jew's hate flared so high he
could not restrain his tongue, spitting out the words
as he panted for breath, expecting, perhaps, to terror-
ize me by threat.
“You’re fighting a man this time, yer hell-hound;
not a whiffet like Harris. I'll blow a hole clear
through yer! Sneaked in, did yer? Well, ye’ll never
sneak out again! Say, how do yer like the taste o'
that?” He struck with a knee in the stomach, grin-
ning as I loosened my grip on his beard, and tried
to butt into me with lowered head. I caught him
instantly, with a free fist, rocking his head back and
cutting a gash in his cheek from which blood spurted.
He tried the same trick again, but I blocked it, whirl-
ing him sidewise against the wall and landing twice


THE DEATH OF A MURDERER 259
with short jabs to the body. If he possessed any
self-control before, he lost it then, crazed with hate
and the desire to kill. He was a bar-room fighter,
bound by no rules, capable of any ferocity—biting,
gouging, using hands and feet, a ruthless savage. It
was this which defeated him, for while I was neither
cool nor clear of mind, I kept my head sufficiently to
remember my training and accept every advantage
that presented itself; more than that, the very threats
with which he tried to goad me were guides to his
own action, giving me the swift hint needed for
defense. f
“Get up, Wine! Now's yer chance; I’ve got the
cuss so he can't move—bean him with that chair!
No! no! don't use the gun, you darned fool! We
don't want any police in here. Swipe him one over
the head. Oh, hell! did you ever see such a mutt.
Say, this is the guy I told you about, the fellow who
was with the girl—quick now; soak him one!”
Realizing Wine was back of me, I managed to
whirl the big bulk of the battling Russian about so as
to block any surprise attack from the rear. This
movement gave me the support of the wall, and, using
it as a defense, I resorted to the same tactic adopted
by Waldron, assaulting him with feet as well as hands,
breaking his strangle hold on my throat and forcing
him backward, so that a swift kick sent the fellow
stumbling over a pile of books, clawing at the empty
air for support. He would have gone sprawling upon
his back if Wine had not been directly in the way.
As it was, he struck the other, the force of his


260 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
big body hurling the smaller man heavily against the
ledge of the outer window. As the fellow struck the
glass shivered and crashed into a thousand pieces,
but before Waldron could regain firm footing, or
realize what had happened, I was again upon him,
breaking through his dazed guard and driving my
fists straight into his face.
The revolver in Wine's hand was discharged, the
bullet whistling past me, but even as the report
cracked, the pressure of the Jew's body forced the
smaller man relentlessly backward over the sill. He
gave utterance of one wild yell of fright, releasing
the gun and gripping desperately at Waldron's collar
for support, then toppled over backward and went
down.
We both heard the crash as the splinters of glass
gave way, and the dull, dead thud of the body as it
struck somewhere far below. The Russian seemed
paralyzed with horror, unable to quite comprehend
what had occurred behind him. But I had seen the
tragedy, and my mind worked like a flash. He made
one weak effort to spring aside, forgetful of his own
danger, his guard dropped, and I let him have it—
straight in the jaw. The clinched fist crunched into
his whiskers, and, with arms flung up, he went over
as if shot, his head striking an edge of the overturned
bookcase as he fell, and lay there motionless, a trickle
of blood slowly oozing out upon the floor.
I stared down at the white upturned face, dazed
myself at the sudden ending of the struggle. The
fellow's limbs did not even twitch; one arm had fal-


266 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
the search. There were only two people to whom
I could turn for even a suggestion—Krantz the
banker, and Sarah Waldron. I doubted if either
would reveal the truth, but I could use the threat of
exposure against Krantz, and might thus terrorize
him into revealing the truth. Unquestionably he was
aware of who Marie Gessler really was—probably he
alone of that group possessed this exact information.
She had dropped several hints which led me to this
conclusion, convinced me that he was actually aware
of who she was, and why she was engaged in this
particular conspiracy.
I spent an entire evening in my room turning the
whole matter over in my mind, after reading the brief
newspaper report of the coroner's inquest, and de-
cided that if the girl did not call me by phone before
noon the next day I would certainly exhaust every
effort to find her. She would assuredly learn by that
time what had occurred, but, whether she so desired
or not, I was not willing to let her drop out of my
life. I would learn, at least, whatever Adolph Krantz
knew about her.
The hours dragged away bringing no message, the
silence merely strengthening my resolution and in-
creasing my interest. After a lonely lunch, in which
her face seemed ever before me, I took a taxi and
drove direct to the bank. It was one of those dingy,
solid stone structures on Wall Street, emblematic of
strength and financial soundness, and once within its
sacred portals I felt the natural awe which such in-
stitutions usually exercise over the ordinary deposi-


THE PRIVATE SECRETARY 267
tor. Here everything spoke in terms of millions, and
the great god Wealth was enthroned in state. I
crossed the marble-floored lobby and approached a
desk rather doubtfully. A middle-aged man glanced
up from his work, and listened quietly to my question,
examining my card attentively.
“Ah, yes, United States Consular Service—I see.
I regret to say that Mr. Adolph Krantz is not in the
bank to-day. In fact he is out of town, possibly for a
week. Yes, he left rather suddenly for Washington.
Perhaps you might care to talk with his Secretary.”
I hesitated, yet almost as quickly decided to see
what might develop.
“I will if you please, for just a moment.”
“Very good, sir. The third door down that cor-
ridor to the left. You will find it ajar, I think; walk
right in.”
I proceeded as he directed, the glass partitions of
the bank on one side, the other divided into small
private offices, the equipment plainly handsome. The
third door stood partly open, giving me a glimpse
within before I ventured to enter. It was richly fur-
nished, containing two solid mahogany desks, a type-
writer stand, the machine covered; books lined the
opposite wall, and a striking rug protected the floor.
The place had far more the appearance of a private
library than a downtown business office. A woman
was bending over the further desk, busied at some
work. I saw no other occupant, nor could I obtain
anything but an unsubstantial glimpse at her. With


268 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
heart beating somewhat faster I ventured to open the
door sufficiently wide to enter.
There was no one else present, but her head in-
stantly lifted, and she rose to her feet, with a quick
smile, and outstretched hand, coming directly toward
me.
“Mr. Philip Severn, at last,” she exclaimed pleas-
antly. “My faith is rewarded.”
“Your faith,” I echoed, rallying from my surprise
at this greeting. “Then you were expecting me?”
“I have hever felt a very serious doubt. Does that
sound odd? Let me close the door, and then we will
sit down and talk. I am never disturbed when the
door is shut. Here is the best place. Yes, Mr. Sev-
ern, I was certain curiosity would cause you to seek
me, even if there was no other motive. So, like a
woman, I waited.”
“Yes, but I possessed no knowledge to guide me.”
“I let you know that I knew Mr. Krantz very well.”
“Did you do that purposely?”
“I refuse to answer; still I will confess I left that
door wide open, if you cared to use it. You did not
expect to see me here, though; that was plain enough
in your face. Then why did you come?”
“Because I wanted to find you,” I confessed frank-
ly. “To at least learn who you might be. I waited,
believing you would phone me. Surely you heard
what happened?”
“Oh, yes. I am not sure, but I may know even
more than you do. But please go on; I did not phone,
so you came here.”


270 THE MYSTERY OF THE SILVER DAGGER
sider my actions very unwomanly. It has been a
certain fear of your judgment which has kept me
silent and mysterious so long. But now that it is all
over, there is no other way except to explain every-
thing frankly. I could not deceive any longer, if I
wished to do so. Now just be quiet until I finish.”
Her eyes met mine earnestly, but I felt I could
perceive a certain pleading in their depths.
“I am Tom Longdale's sister Helen. As you
doubtless know, financially there is no necessity for
my seeking employment. Indeed I did not seek it,
but was induced to accept this position at the request
of Mr. Krantz, who has been a life-long friend of
my father's. I enjoy the work, however, and have
been here now nearly three years. Adolph Krantz is
a most lovable man, and I am devoted to his service.
He is an Austrian by birth, and has found it more or
less difficult to get away from that influence. Much
money from Europe passes through his hands in
financing various schemes, and among others this
revolutionary fund was intrusted to him. At first he
accepted this in the ordinary course of business, with-
out suspicioning its purpose, but later learned how
the money was being expended. I knew little of this
at the time, as it was all done secretly, and outside
the bank, but the moment he became doubtful, Mr.
Krantz absolutely severed all connections with these
plotters and their schemes. While this was thorough-
ly understood officially, in Washington, where he re-
ported his suspicion, certain circles, engaged in under-
hand work, still believed he could be used for their


THE PRIVATE SECRETARY 271
purposes. The body controlled by Captain Alva was
evidently one of these, who later decided to make
him their financial agent. This group, while pretend-
ing to be entirely Chilean, is, in reality, a branch of
International Revolutionaries, whose main object is
the overturning of all existing forms of government.
Their money comes largely from Bolshevik sources,
and is seemingly unlimited. In this case it was doubt-
less sent in Adolph Krantz's name, before the leaders
over there learned that he was no longer a safe
emissary.” -
“Yet he accepted the trust?” t
“In a way, yes; but with perfectly loyal intent. As
soon as word secretly reached him that he was to be
thus used, he laid the full facts before the officials of
this bank. I was present as his Secretary, and learned
then for the first time what I have already told you.
They advised that he make the plot known imme-
diately to the authorities at Washington. I accom-
panied him on that mission, and we then returned to
New York to act under instructions. He was directed
to accept the order, and thus, through seeming co-
operation, learn the details of the plot, and the names
of those directly connected with it. There was delay;
for some reason Alva was not quite ready to go ahead,
and refused to draw the money. Proof of conspiracy
was lacking until this was consummated. Mr. Krantz,
being afraid that he would be followed if he went
again to Washington, delegated me to go, as I was
entirely unknown. The Secret Service there outlined
a plan designed to hurry matters. I was to be sent


THE PRIVATE SECRETARY 273
“Yes, I followed you in.”
“I wish I had known; I would have ventured more
than I dared to alone. I suspected—yes; but that was
all. I possessed no facts, but I frightened him so
when I exhibited that hat-pin I felt absolutely con-
vinced that he was guilty.”
“You had no reason to believe he possessed such a
weapon?”
“None whatever; I merely took a chance. I think
now the pin used belonged to Sarah Waldron, but
how it came there can only be determined through a
confession by her husband.”
Her eyes lifted again to mine, questioningly, and a
bit anxious.
“Was my course right or wrong, Philip Severn?”
“Undoubtedly right, although I imagine few girls
would have had the courage.”
“You believe in me still? in the woman?”
My handclasp tightened, and her eyes dropped be-
fore the message she must have instantly read in
mine.
“This has been a test of us both which we will
never regret,” I answered soberly, “for it has brought
faith, hope, love; is this not true?”
She did not move, or glance up, but I caught the
whispered response of her lips.
THE END


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